THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


SOUTHWOLD 


SOUTHWOLD: 


•  Semita  certe 


Tranquillae  per  virtutem  patet  unica  vitas." 

Juv.  SAT.  X. 

"  Tout  mortel  est  done  n6  pour  suffrir." 

Oreste — VOLTAIRE. 


BY 
MRS.  LILLIE  DEVEREUX  UMSTED. 


NEW   YORK: 

RUDD    &    CARLETON,    310  BROADWAY. 
MDCCCLIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  07 

BUDD   &   CABLETON, 

la  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  Tort 


M»ur.  •ufwtjrpw.  .nd  Etaetrotypa 

C«tan  Buifting, 
«.  C,  «rf  M  &««  *^t 


PS> 

MO*. 


MRS.   S.   E.   DEVEREUX, 

MY 

HONORED   MOTHER, 

THIS  BOOK 

is 
AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED. 


SOUTHWOLD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Stassi  1'avaro  sguardo  in  se  raccolto, 
E  i  tesori  d'amore  e  i  suoi  nasconde, 
Dolce  color  di  rose  in  quel  vel  volto, 
Fra  1'  avorio  si  sparge  e  si  confonde, 
Ma  nella  bocca  ond  esce  ama  amorosa 
Sola  roseggia  e  semplice  la  rosa." 

La  Gerusalemme. — TASSO. 

"  Fool  that  I  am,  to  place  my  heart  so  ill !  " 

Dido  to  ^Eneas. — DRYDEN. 

A  PRIVATE  parlor  in  a  city  boarding-house,  at  four 
o'clock  of  a  dull  March  afternoon. 

It  was  a  small  room,  with  a  plain  carpet  on  the  floor, 
and  a  large  sofa  occupying  nearly  the  whole  of  one  side. 
In  front  of  this  was  a  table,  upon  which  were  scattered 
several  books  and  the  papers  of  the  day,  while  in  the 
centre  stood  a  vase,  containing  a  beautiful  bouquet  of 
greenhouse  flowers  ;  opposite  was  an  open  piano,  and 
this  with  two  or  three  chairs  completed  the  furniture. 


i  o  Southwold. 

The  windows  at  unequal  distances  each  side  the  chimney 
were  inexpensively  curtained,  and  the  shades  drawn 
down  so  darkened  the  room,  that  the  principal  light  in 
it  seemed  to  come  from  a  cheerful  coal  fire  glowing  in 
the  grate.  On  the  whole  there  was  an  air  of  comfort 
about  the  apartment,  but  this  was  owing  less  to  the  ele- 
gance of  its  contents  than  to  their  judicious  and  tasteful 
arrangement. 

As  the  hands  of  a  large  old-fashioned  watch,  which, 
supported  in  a  handsome  stand  on  the  mantel,  supplied 
the  place  of  a  clock,  pointed  to  a  quarter  past  four,  the 
door  of  an  adjoining  bedroom  opened,  and  a  young  girl 
entered  the  parlor. 

Medora  Fielding  was  just  nineteen,  in  all  the  power 
and  glory  of  perfect  health  and  magnificent  beauty. 
She  was  slightly  above  the  medium  height ;  of  a  figure, 
which,  though  lithe  and  slender,  was  faultlessly  round  in 
the  graceful  curves  of  its  outlines.  Her  face  was  perfect 
in  its  oval,  with  a  straight,  delicately-formed  nose,  whose 
exquisitely  chiselled  nostril  indicated  at  once  high  spirit 
and  pure  blood.  Her  mouth,  although  beautifully 
formed,  was  a  trifle  too  voluptuous  in  its  full  ripeness 
of  lip,  yet  you  might  watch  it  for  hours,  ever  entranced 
by  its  wonderful  power  of  varying  expression.  Her 
eyes  were  large,  and  so  heavily  veiled  by  their  long 
dark  lashes,  that  it  was  only  when  they  were  fixed  upon 
you  with  earnest  steadiness  of  look  that  you  realized 
they  were  not  black,  but  clear  lustrous  blue.  Her  com- 
plexion was  dazzlingly  fair  and  pure,  and  ever  fleeting 
its  color.  Habitually  the  smooth  cheek  was  tinged 
y  with  a  faint  blush,  but  this,  changing  in  accordance 

nth  the  emotions  of  the  moment,  would  deepen  into  a 


Southwold.  1 1 

rich  crimson,  or  fade  into  snowy  whiteness.    This  almost 
faultless  face  was  encircled  by  a  wealth  of  sunny  ring- 
lets, which  surrounded  it  like  the  golden  frame  of  a  ' 
beautiful  picture. 

Her  dress,  of  rich  dark  blue,  although  inexpensive  in 
material,  had  that  indescribable  air  of  style,  which  is 
given  by  exquisite  fit  and  the  last  fashion.  A  delicate 
perfume  pervaded  the  atmosphere  around  her,  which 
seemed  to  emanate  from  every  fold  of  her  robe  and 
every  wave  of  her  luxuriant  hair. 

She  crossed  the  room  with  a  quick  elastic  step,  and 
glanced  at  the  watch. 

"  A  quarter-past  four !"  she  exclaimed,  "  and  Walter 
not  yet  come." 

She  turned  away  impatiently,  walked  to  one  of  the  win- 
dows, and  drew  up  the  shade.  The  outside  prospect  was 
by  no  means  a  charming  one ;  only  a  dreary  waste  of  low 
roofs  beneath,  and  the  dull  leaden  sky  above. 

"  Nothing  there  to  cheer  me,"  she  said  despondently. 
"How  weary  I  am  of  this  wretched  room  and  this 
circumscribed  view." 

She  left  the  window,  and  began  restlessly  to  pace 
the  floor.  "  But  where  is  Walter  ?  We  have  not  met 
for  a  week,  and  yet  he  is  allowing  this  only  hour  which 
we  could  pass  alone  together,  to  slip  away,  moment 
by  moment.  How  I  wish  he  was  here."  She  sighed 
heavily,  but  an  instant  after  her  whole  expression 
changed  as  she  caught  the  sound  of  an  approaching 
footfall.  "  Hark !"  she  exclaimed,  "  that  is  his  step  on 
the  stair.  Come  in." 

As  the  words  died  on  her  lips,  Walter  Lascelles  entered 
the  room.  He  was  perhaps  twenty-three  years  old,  but 


1 2  Southwold. 

he  looked  even  younger  from  the  effeminate  delicacy  of 
his  complexion.  His  figure,  although  tall  and  well-made, 
was  unusually  stout  for  so  young  a  man.  His  face  was 
handsome  from  its  regularity  of  feature,  and  possessed 
a  certain  degree  of  intelligence  and  amiability  of  ex- 
pression, notwithstanding  the  heavy  sensuality  of  his 
mouth,  and  the  restless  and  often  sinister  glances  of  his 
cold  blue  eyes. 

As  he  advanced  eagerly  towards  Medora  a  bright 
smile  broke  over  her  face  that  chased  away  every 
trace  of  sadness,  and  rendered  it  bewitchingly  beau- 
tiful. 

"At  last !"  she  said,  as  she  placed  her  hand  in  his. 

"Yes,  darling!  though  I  thought  I  never  would  be 
able  to  leave  the  office.  When  I  was  released,  you  may 
be  sure  I  almost  ran  all  the  way  here,  lest  I  should  be 
too  late." 

Medora  withdrew  her  hand  and  seated  herself  on  the 
sofa,  as  she  said,  "  Always  good  at  excuses,  Walter ;  you 
remind  me  of  an  old  saying  of  my  school  teachers, 
'people  who  are  good  at  excuses,  are  good  at  nothing 
else.' » 

"  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  I  hope,"  replied  LasceUes, 
gaily,  though  a  crimson  flush  overspread  his  face  at  the 
sarcasm. 

"Seriously,  Walter,  it  happens  too  often  that  you 
*  your  appointments  with  me.     I  may  be  too 
sting,  perhaps,  I  have  been  spoiled,"   she   added 
charming  coquetry,  "but  I  scarcely  believe  you 
s  me,  when  you  are  so  reluctant  to  see  me  alone  » 
3  not  that,  but  really  I  am  so  busy—" 

Id  an  apology,"  interrupted  Medora  quickly,  for 


Southwold.  13 

she  was  hurt  by  the  coldness  of  his  tone  and  expression, 
when  she  had  expected  a  passionate  protestation  in 
reply.  "  You  know  the  old  verse— 

"  '  A  laggard  in  love  .  .  .  .  ' 

you  remember  the  remainder  of  the  line  ?" 
"  No,  I  do  not.     What  is  it  ?" 
"  You  won't  be  angry  if  I  tell  you  ?" 
"  How  could  I  be  with  you,  dearest  ?" 
"Well,  then, 

"  '  A  dastard  in  war.'  " 

"You  are  too  bad,  Medora,"  said  Lascelles,  with 
another  angry  flush. 

She  saw  that  he  was  hurt,  and  her  womanly  heart, 
which  had  been  longing  to  forgive  him,  was  touched. 
Perhaps,  too,  her  vanity  was  gratified  that  she  had 
roused  his  feelings  and  satisfied  herself  of  her  power. 
She  replied,  in  a  softened  tone,  and  with  exquisite 
tenderness : 

"  You  promised  not  to  be  angry." 

"  I  said  it  would  be  impossible  with  you,  and  so  it  is, 
darling."  Lascelles  was  fond  of  lavishing  terms  of 
endearment  on  any  woman  with  whom  he  was  intimately 
thrown,  but  this  was  his  favorite  one,  and  long  after- 
wards, when  he  had  used  it  thoughtlessly  to  a  score  of 
beauties,  Medora  could  never  hear  that  word  "  darling" 
without  a  desperate  thrill  at  her  heart.  Now  it  touched 
her  as  it  always  did,  and  she  held  out  her  hand  Jo  him. 
Just  as  he  raised  it  to  his  lips,  a  step  was  heard 
approaching  the  door. 


1 4  Southwold. 

"There's  mamma,"  exclaimed  Medora,  quickly;  and 
Lascelles  had  only  time  to  leave  the  sofa  and  take  a  chair, 
before  Mrs.  Fielding  came  in.  She  was  a  small,  thin 
woman,  with  a  face  stih1  possessing  the  traces  of  beauty, 
though  disfigured  by  a  look  of  ill  health  and  peevish- 
ness. 

She  greeted  Lascelles  coldly  ;  for  in  her  eyes  his 
poverty  was  almost  a  crime.  He  fully  understood  her 
feelings  towards  him,  and  therefore,  after  a  few  common- 
place civilities,  rose  to  go. 

"  May  I  ask  where  those  beautiful  flowers  came  from, 
Miss  Medora  ?"  he  said,  half  aside. 

"  Mr.  Claude  Hamilton  sent  them  this  morning," 
replied  Medora. 

"  By  the  way  he  is  going  abroad  soon, — is  he  not  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  sails  In  the  next  steamer." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Lascelles,  in  a  significant 
undertone,  as  he  bowed  over  her  hand. 

The  door  had  scarcely  closed  upon  him,  when  Mrs. 
Fielding  exclaimed  fretfully :  "  Really,  Medora,  I  do 
wish  you  would  not  let  that  tiresome  Lascelles  come 
here  so  often." 

But  I  don't  think  he  is  tiresome,  mamma." 

"  No,  I  dare  say  not ;  neither  does  Lucy  Wentworth 
I  suppose." 

At  this  name  the  bright  look  which  had  rested  on 

lora's  face  ever  since  her  lover  left,  suddenly  va- 

ished^  and  she  asked  hastily,  «  Why  do  you  say  that  ?" 

Then  he  did  not  tell  you  he  has  been  driving  with 

r  all  the  afternoon,  in  the  new  carriage  her  father 
gave  her  at  Christmas." 

Every  vestige  of  color  left  Medora's  cheek  as  she 


South  wold.  15 

heard  these  words,  and  a  conviction  of  the  falsehood  of 
Lascelles's  excuse  flashed  across  her ;  but  she  said  stea- 
dily, "  Are  you  sure  it  was  he  ?" 

"  Yes,  perfectly  certain.  I  saw  them  first  more  than 
an  hour  ago,  when  I  was  on  Mrs.  Clarkson's  step.  They 
were  driving  up  Fifth  Avenue  then ;  and  on  my  way 
home  I  passed  opposite  Mr.  Went  worth's,  just  as  Las- 
celles  was  helping  Lucy  out  at  the  door.  You  should 
have  seen  the  air  with  which  he  did  it." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  I  should  have  been  amused,"  said 
Medora,  coldly,  as  her  mother  rose  to  leave  the  room. 
But  when  she  was  alone,  and  free  from  all  restraint,  her 
indignant  passion  found  vent  in  impetuous  words. 

"  Another  falsehood !  Why  ^can  he  not  be  true,  even 
if  he  is  no  longer  faithful  ?  This  is  not  the  first  time  he 
has  wilfully  sought  to  deceive  me.  Oh  !  how  I  wish  I 
could  despise  him,  as  he  deserves." 

There  was  a  passionate  energy  in  her  voice,  as  she 
murmured  these  last  words ;  yet  a  moment  after,  when 
her  mother  joined  her,  she  had  banished  every  trace  of 
emotion,  and  only  that  she  was  a  shade  paler  than  usual, 
there  was  nothing  to  indicate  that  their  last  conversa- 
tion had  been  of  more  than  ordinary  interest. 

Oh !  wonderful  faculty  that  we  possess  of  suppress- 
ing all  outward  signs  of  feeling,  however  powerful. 
Were  it  not  so,  would  not  our  countenances  be  for  ever 
distorted  with  the  anguish  of  unhappiness  and  disap- 
pointment. Do  you  think  because  your  vis-d-vis  at  din- 
ner has  a  smile  on  his  face,  that  his  heart  smiles  also  ? 

Mrs.  Fielding  made  no  further  allusion  to  a  subject 
which  she  half  suspected  pained  her  daughter  more  than 
she  chose  to  allow.  Indeed,  all  further  conversation 


1 6  Southwold. 

was  for  the  time  prevented  by  the  dinner-hour  and 
the  gong.  That  horror  of  modern  hotels  began  its 
hideous  groaning :  at  first  a  low  rumbling  like  distant 
thunder,  increasing  in  waves  of  sound  till  the  whole 
house  was  full  of  the  intolerable  noise.  Small  thanks  to 
the  man  who  first  suggested  the  idea  that  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  the  civilized  western  world  should  be 
called  to  their  meals  by  the  barbaric  music  that  sum- 
mons to  battle  the  uncouth  hordes  of  the  Celestial 
kingdom. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Apres  une  careme  ennuyeux 
G-rdce  a  Dieu,  void  la  Semaine 
Des  divertissements  pieux." 

ROUSSEAU. 

"  On  peut  changer  d'amant,  mais  non  changer  d'epoux." 

COBNEILLB. 


-  RICHARD  FIELDING,  Medora's  father,  was  a 
brave  soldier  and  a  gallant  gentleman.  He  was  well 
known  and  widely  beloved  among  his  brother  officers, 
and  there  was  many  a  heart-felt  sigh  of  regret  when  the 
news  came  of  his  death  by  a  malignant  fever,  tha*»  deci- 
mated the  distant  post  at  which  he  was  stationed.  He 
had  married  some  five  years  previously  the  then  reign- 
ing belle  of  New  York  —  Miss  Annie  Clinton,  and  his 
last  moments  were  embittered  by  the  thought  that  he 
should  leave  her  and  his  little  daughter  almost  penniless. 
The  slender  pittance  of  the  pension  was  indeed  poor  and 
insufficient  for  the  maintenance  of  the  widow  and  the 
education  of  her  little  girl,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
death  shortly  after  of  one  of  Mrs.  Fielding's  brothers, 
of  whose  estate  she  received  her  portion,  their  situation 
would  have  been  indeed  deplorable.  Even  as  it  was, 
their  annual  income  was  so  small,  that  from  her  earliest 
childhood  Medora  had  been  accustomed  to  the  desperate 


ig  South  wold. 

struggle  of  striving  to  keep  up  appearances  upon  limited 
means.  She  had  never  known  the  happy  retirement  of 
a  home,  so  essential  to  the  proper  development  of  cha- 
racter, especially  to  a  girl;  but  with  her  mother  had 
journeyed  from  one  hotel  or  boarding-house  to  another, 
always  endeavoring  to  unite  the  greatest  amount  of 
show  with  the  least  possible  expense,  at  no  matter  what 
sacrifice  of  comfort. 

Upon  Mrs.  Fielding  the  effects  of  this  life  had  been 
peculiarly  unfortunate.  Her  health  had  failed  utterly 
years  ago,  and  this  from  no  positive  disease  in  the  first 
instance,  but  from  an  entire  neglect  of  the  most  ordinary 
sanitary  rules.  Improper  food,  irregular  hours,  and 
above  all,  total  want  of  exercise,  had  at  last  developed 
in  her  system  disorders  serious  enough  to  form  an  ex- 
cuse for  her  becoming  a  hopeless  hypochondriac.  With 
ill-health  came  its  frequent  accompaniment,  excessive 
nervousness  and  irritability,  so  that  her  daughter  had 
never^found  hi  her  an  agreeable  companion  or  a  sympa- 
thizing friend. 

Medora  was  endowed  by  nature  with  a  combina- 
tion of  qualities  not  often  met  with  in  her  sex.  Her 
mind  had  a  rare  breadth  and  scope;  indeed,  it  was 
almost  masculine  in  its  depth  of  thought  and  capa- 
bility of  analytical  inquiry.  This  power  is  always 
dangerous  to  its  possessor,  but  doubly  so,  when 
that  possessor  is  a  woman.  It  is  difficult  for  one  so 
gifted  to  take  anything  on  trust.  Every  proposition 
must  be  absolutely  demonstrated  before  it  is  accorded 
full  belief.  As  with  most  of  the  doctrines  of  a  religious 
creed  this  is  clearly  impossible,  it  is  but  too  frequently 
the  case  that  it  leads  to  fearful  scepticism,  if  not  to  set- 


South  wold.  19 

tied  infidelity,  and  with  women  far  more  than  with  men 
is  implicit  faith  absolutely  necessary  to  happiness. 

In  the  instance  of  Medora,  accustomed  all  her  life  to 
pay  religion  the  respect  of  outward  observance  of  its 
requirements,  she  had  as  yet  given  but  little  serious 
thought  to  the  unknown  and  illimitable  future  that 
stretches  in  fearful  uncertainty  beyond  the  gates  of 
death.  She  was  young,  vigorous,  and  full  of  animal 
spirits,  and  no  great  sorrow  had  as  yet  crossed  her  path. 
How  will  it  be  when  her  hour  of  trial  comes — will  she 
find  consolation  in  the  peace  which  the  world  cannot 
take  away,  or  will  she  sink  into  utter  and  hopeless  un- 
belief? 

From  her  father  Medora  had  inherited  a  rare  fasci- 
nation and  grace  of  manner,  and  the  most  dauntless 
courage.  She  had  a  pride,  too,  indomitable  for  either 
physical  or  moral  cowardice,  and  you  felt  when  you 
caught  the  light  that  sometimes  flashed  from  her  eyes 
that  no  power  of  circumstances  could  ever  wholly  over- 
whelm that  brave  spirit.  Yet  with  this  she  had  the 
passion  of  a  true  woman  for  all  the  elegancies  and  luxu- 
ries that  can  gratify  the  senses.  What  wonder,  then,  that 
she  loathed  this  perpetual  struggle  with  poverty,  and 
that  she  regarded  wealth  as  the  one  great  good  of  life. 

Mrs.  Fielding's  connexion  with  some  of  the  first  fami- 
lies of  New  York  had  rendered  Medora's  debUt  a  bril- 
liant one,  and  it  was  not  surprising  that  she  had  come 
to  consider  the  obtaining  a  rich  husband  as  the  end  and 
aim  of  all  her  triumphs.  Behold  her  then  at  eighteen 
the  reigning  belle  of  the  city,  glorying  in  vigorous  health,, 
a  magnificent  animal  organization,  and  superb  beauty. 

During  this  season  she  had  met  Walter  Lascelles,  and 


2o  South  wold. 

from  the  first,  unworthy  as  he  was,  there  was  that  about 
him  that  fascinated  her  irresistibly.  His  very  effemi- 
nacy was  pleasing  to  one  of  so  strong  a  character,  and 
it  was  not  long  before  she  discovered  that  her  attach- 
ment to  him  would  form  the  one  grand  passion  of  her 
life.  He  was  not  rich,  yet  for  his  sake  she  would  willingly 
brave  poverty ;  of  an  obscure  New  England  family,  yet 
for  him  she  would  resign  all  hopes  of  a  brilliant  alliance. 
He  was  of  course  struck  with  her  wonderful  beauty; 
and  when  he  saw  that  she,  for  whom  half  the  young 
men  of  the  city  sighed  in  vain,  evidently  accorded  him 
a  preference,  his  vanity  was  flattered,  and  his  sensual 
nature  roused  into  a  love  as  deep  as  it  was  possible  for 
him  to  feel.  But  poor,  and  craving  money,  not  for  what 
it  would  purchase  but  with  a  sordid  lust,  and  by  far  too 
indolent  ever  to  earn  even  a  competence,  he  felt  it  abso- 
lutely necessary  that  he  should  bring  his  personal  ad- 
vantages into  the  matrimonial  market,  and,  if  possible, 
give  them  in  exchange  for  wealth.  Yet,  urged  on  by 
passion,  he  drew  from  Medora  an  avowal  of  her  love, 
and  himself  plighted  his  faith  hi  return,  though  exacting 
a  promise  of  the  strictest  secresy.  And  she,  usually  so 
clear-sighted  in  the  motives  of  others,  in  this  instance, 
where  she  needed  all  her  penetration,  was  hopelessly 
blind. 

Ah !  why  is  it  that  women  of  intellect  are  so  rarely 
happy  in  their  loves !  That  since  those  old  days,  when 
Sappho  sighed  in  vain  for  Phaon,  their  very  brilliancy 
has  seemed  to  render  them  all  the  more  easily  deceived, 
until,  with  crushed  hearts,  they  are  ready  to  exclaim, 
Would  God,  I  had  been  born  a  fool ! 

Fancying  Lascelles  to  possess  all  the  qualities  which 


South  wold.  21 

she  had  painted  in  her  beau-ideal,  Medora  dreamed  that 
he  would  achieve  wealth  and  distinction,  and  was  will- 
ing to  wait  years,  confident  they  should  yet  be  happy. 
Of  course,  with  her  heart  full  of  this  passion,  she  re- 
garded other  suits  as  mere  annoyances.  Notwith- 
standing all  her  mother  could  urge  she  rejected  several 
brilliant  offers  of  marriage,  until  Mrs.  Fielding,  suspect- 
ing that  Lascelles  was  the  obstacle  to  any  other  prefer- 
ence, determined  to  break  up  his  intimacy  with  her 
daughter.  Any  effort  on  her  part,  however,  was  not 
necessary. 

For  some  time  previous  to  this  period  he  had  ceased 
to  speak  of  the  future,  and  although  quite  as  ardent 
when  with  Medora,  his  visits  were  less  frequent.  More 
,  than  once  she  had  heard  the  name  of  Lucy  Wentworth 
associated  with  his  in  a  way  that  at  first  filled  her  with 
surprise,  and  then,  as  we  have  seen,  with  despairing 
indignation. 

Two  weeks  had  passed  since  the  afternoon  that  Medora 
had  first  received  convincing  proof  of  the  falsehood  and 
treachery  of  Lascelles,  and  during  that  time  she  had  never 
seen  him.  In  vain  she  strove  to  excuse  his  neglect  in  a 
thousand  different  ways,  and  dwelt  upon  each  look  and 
word  of  their  last  meeting  to  assure  herself  of  his  con- 
tinued affection.  She  heard  of  him  almost  daily  as 
devoted  to  Lucy  Wentworth  from  her  gay  young  friends, 
none  of  whom  suspected  her  secret  engagement.  Ren- 
dered almost  desperate  by  this  confirmation  of  her  worst 
fears,  and  feeling  that  her  own  dignity  demanded  an 
explanation  of  his  conduct,  she  made  the  most  strenu- 
ous efforts  to  see  him. — but  in  vain.  The  abrupt  entrance 
of  her  mother  at  that  last  interview  had  prevented  her 


22  South  wold. 

from  making  any  agreement  for  the  future ;  and  although 
she  had,  at  the  risk  of  breaking  every  other  appointment, 
remained  at  home  each  afternoon  at  the  hour  which  had 
been  that  of  his  usual  visits,  he  had  not  called. 

Those  were  indeed  wretched  days  to  Medora, — those 
mornings  when  after  an  early  breakfast  she  hastened 
into  the  street  in  the  vain  hope  of  seeing  him  on  his 
way  to  his  office,  and  when  after  a  weary  walk  she  would 
return  home  tired  and  dispirited,  although  almost  always 
accompanied  by  some  admirer  whose  lively  small  talk 
was  but  an  aggravation  of  her  disappointment.  Or 
worse  than  these,  those  evenings  when  she  would  listen 
with  eager  ears  for  the  well  known  footsteps  that  never 
came,  until,  as  the  moments  slipped  away  and  the  hour 
when  they  could  come  drew  near  its  close,  she  would  pace 
the  room  like  a  caged  tigress,  with  a  fierce  impatient 
longing  to  throw  aside  all  the  restraints  of  her  sex,  and 
seek  out  that  false  lover  who  would  not  come  to  her. 

The  whole  of  this  fortnight  was  hi  Lent,  and  the  last 
half  of  it  Passion  Week,  so  that  there  was  no  opportunity 
of  seeing  Lascelles  at  any  of  the  ordinary  haunts  of 
fashionable  gaiety.  But  at  last  this  was  over,  and  the 
Easter  sun  rose  brilliant  and  beautiful  over  the  earth. 
The  following  night  there  was  to  be  a  party  at  the  house 
of  a  mutual  acquaintance,  and  Medora  was  sure  that  she 
should  there  meet  Lascelles.  Full  of  this  thought,  she 
had  spent  the  whole  of  this  Sunday,  which  should  be  one 
of  calm  religious  joy,  in  wishing  the  lagging  hours  away. 
Yet  blame  her  not  too  severely.  Wounded  vanity, 
insulted  pride,  and  outraged  affection — those  are  hard 
things  to  bear.  What  wonder,  then,  if  eren  this  glorious 
festival  brought  no  peace  or  comfort  to  her,  and  that  she 


Southwold.  23 

chafed  with  impatience  during  services  that  wearied  her 
and  prayers  in  which  she  could  not  join. 

Even  when  time  is  most  leaden-winged  he  accomplishes 
his  flight,  and  at  last  Monday  evening  came.  It  was  a 
brilliant  opening  of  the  spring  season,  that  bah1  at  Mrs. 
Le  Roy  Clarkson's.  She  was  a  gay  married  woman,  fond 
of  clustering  around  her  fair  young  girls,  and  Medora, 
as  the  fairest  of  them  all,  was  the  especial  favorite.  On 
this  occasion  she  had  insisted  that  she  should  come  early 
to  aid  her  in  receiving  her  guests.  The  first  embrace 
of  those  two  women  was  a  pretty  sight.  Mrs.  Clarkson, 
a  handsome  brunette  gorgeous  with  velvet  and  diamonds, 
and  Medora,  a  pure  Saxon  blonde  in  a  floating  dress  of 
some  thin  white  material,  her  golden  locks  wreathed 
with  starry  blue  flowers.  At  that  moment  the  contrast 
between  them  was  striking  as  that  which  the  Count  of 
France  once  saw  when  the  magnificent  Catharine  de 
Medici  and  the  graceful  Marie  Stuart  stood  side  by  side, 
before  the  unrivalled  charms  of  the  youthful  Queen  of 
Scots  had  been  clouded  by  the  first  of  those  overwhelm- 
ing sorrows  which  were  even  then  darkening  over  her 
sad  future. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  sufferings  of  the  past 
fortnight  had  dimmed  the  lustre  of  Medora's  loveliness. 
No, — there  was  a  glowing  color  in  her  cheek  and  a 
bright  flash  in  her  eye  that  might  be  the  result  of  excite- 
ment and  pride,  but  rendered  her  dazzlingly  beautiful. 
Neither  was  she  so  absorbed  in  her  secret  sorrow  as  to 
be  unable  to  bear  her  part  in  a  sprightly  conversation, 
as  you  will  hear  if  you  listen  to  the  chat  of  the  two  ladies. 

MRS.  CLARKSON. — "  It  is  only  half  past  nine.  Come, 
let  us  sit  down  and  have  a  talk  before  any  one  comes." 


24  Southwold. 

MEDORA,  seating  herself. — "  I  came  early  on  purpose 
to  enjoy  that  pleasure,  but  where  is  Mr.  Clarkson  ?" 

MBS.  c. — "  Oh !  the  dear  good  man,  he  is  not  dressed 
yet — besides  I  told  him  he  need  not  come  in  till  the 
rooms  were  pretty  full.  You  know  it  only  bores  him." 

M. — "  Really,  Sue,  I  think  you  have  the  best  and  most 
good-natured  husband  that  ever  a  woman  was  blessed 
with." 

MBS.  C.,  innocently. — "  I  agree  with  you  perfectly, 
my  dear,  but  do  you  know  other  men  sometimes  takes 
advantage  of  it  ?" 

M.,  with  affected  surprise. — "You  don't  say  so.  You 
astonish  me !" 

MES.  C. —  "  West  vrai,  I  assure  you ;  why  there  was 
that  horrid  Tancred  Biddle, — one  of  the  Philadelphia 
Biddies  you  know — of  whom,  as  they  say  there,  '  there 
is  no  end  from  Old  Nick  down.'  " 

M.,  laughing. — "I  remember  him  perfectly,  but  I 
did  not  think  he  was  horrid  at  all ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
struck  me  as  being  decidedly  handsome." 

MBS.  C. — "  Well,  I  suppose  he  was,  but  still  he  was 
shockingly  impertinent ;  you  know  he  used  to  come  here 
sometimes ! " 

M. — "Sometimes! — all  times,  you  mean,  why  every 
one  knew  how  he  admired  you." 

MES.  C. — "  Oh !  that's  nonsense  of  course,  but  still  I 
will  tell  you  what  happened  the  other  day." 

M.— "Do!" 

MRS.  C. — "Well!  you  see  he  had  been  here  twice 
to  dine,  and  each  time,  about  half  an  hour  after  dinner, 
Le  Roy  would  get  up  and  leave  the  room.  Not  that  he 
had  anything  to  do,  but  it  bored  him  to  sit  there  and 


Southwold.  25 

hear  us  talk  nonsense.  So  about  a  week  ago,  I  went 
out  to  drive  with  Biddle,  and  when  I  came  back  of  course 
I  asked  him  to  dine.  In  the  evening,  as  soon  as  we  were 
alone,  he  drew  his  chair  very  near  mine,  and  said — 

"  '  Your  husband  does  not  appreciate  you  ! ' 

"  '  I  assure  you  he  does  better  than  I  deserve,  but  why 
do  you  say  so  ? '  said  I. 

"  *  Why,'  answered  he,  '  I  think  if  he  did  he  would  be 
horribly  jealous.' 

"  c  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why  he  should  be,'  said  I 
innocently. 

"  '  Don't  you  ? '  asked  Biddle,  with  a  look  out  of  his 
black  eyes  that  rather  alarmed  me.  'Why  you  cer- 
tainly know,  if  he  does  not,  how  much  I  admire  you, 
dearest  Sue,'  and  with  that,  do  you  know  the  wretch 
absolutely  had  the  audacity  to  throw  himself  on  his 
knees  before  me  and  try  to  take  my  hand !  I  hardly 
knew  what  to  do.  You  see  I  had  been  rather  flirting 
with  him,  and  did  not  think  the  dignified  would  quite 
answer,  so  I  ran  to  the  door,  and  called  Le  Roy !  Le 
Boy! 

" '  For  God's  sake,  Sue ! '  cried  Biddle,  jumping  up  as 
quickly  as  possible,  4  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? ' 

"  '  I  wish  you  would  not  call  me  Sue,'  replied  I.  '  I 
always  tell  my  husband  everything,  and  I  am  going  to 
tell  him  now — ' 

"  '  What  is  it,  Sue  ?'  said  Le  Roy,  opening  the  library 
door,  just  at  the  moment. 

"  '  Mr.  Biddle  is  making  love  to  me,'  answered  I ;  you 
should  have  seen  the  funny  puzzled  look  in  Le  Roy's 
face.    He  half  suspected  something  queer  had  happened, 
so  he  merely  said,  '  Well  ? ' 
2 


26  South  wold. 

" '  The  fact  was,  I  believe,  I  was  so  stupid  that  at  last, 
as  no  other  topic  would  interest  me,  Mr.  Biddle  essayed 
love-making,  but  I  thought,  perhaps,  it  would  amuse 
you  to  see  him  try  it,  so  I  called  you.  Will  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  proceed  now,  sir  ?"  added  I  to  Biddle,  who 
stood  by  all  this  time  looking  rather  foolish. 

"  c  No,  I  thank  you,'  said  he,  '  I  will  leave  Mr.  Clark- 
son  to  do  it  now  that  he  is  here.' 

"  '  I  think  that  would  be  a  better  plan,'  said  I,  taking 
Le  Roy's  hand,  'but  don't  be  in  haste  to  go;  perhaps 
you  would  like  to  take  a  lesson  in  conjugal  devotion.' 

"  '  Xot  at  present,'  said  he,  with  a  look  at  me  intended 
to  be  annihilating.  But  I  only  smiled  saucily,  so  he  bade 
us  good  evening.  He  left  the  next  day  for  Philadel- 
phia." 

Just  as  the  lively  lady  finished  her  story,  a  gentleman 
about  forty,  with  a  peculiarly  mild  and  amiable  face, 
entered  the  room.  This  was  Mr.  Le  Roy  Clarkson. 
After  speaking  to  Medora,  he  turned  to  his  wife. 

"  Do  you  want  me  now,  Sue  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,  but  you  can  stay  if  you  choose. 
There  is  the  bell, — now  we  shall  soon  have  plenty  of 
people  here." 

A  moment  after,  as  two  muffled  ladies  passed  the  door, 
Mrs.  Clarkson  continued,  "  There  are  those  old  young 
ladies,  the  Misses  Haircloth,  I  wonder  when  they  will 
be  too  antique  to  be  invited  to  dancing  parties  ?  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Medora,  "  that  Miss  Elvira  came  a 
little  early  in  hopes  of  having  an  opportunity  of  talking 
to  you  a  little  about  the  'Sweet  Season'  through 
which  we  have  just  passed,  and  the  great  '  gospel  privi- 
leges' we  have  enjoyed.  For  my  part  I  hate  Lent." 


South  wold.  27 

"  You  shock  me,  Medora,"  said  Mrs.  Clarkson,  with  a 
light  laugh.  "  Voild  !  I  believe  that  was  young  Love- 
lace that  just  went  up  stairs.  If  it  was,  I  mean  to  intro- 
duce him  to  Miss  Elvira  as  soon  as  they  come  down.  It 
will  be  such  fun  to  hear  her  lecture  him." 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain, 
Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel  ; 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain, 
I  only  feel  fare  well  I  farewell!" 

BYRON. 

MEDOKA  filled  her  post  of  assistant  to  her  fascinating 
hostess,  with  every  nerve  braced  to  encounter  Lascelles, 
without  betraying  emotion.  It  was  not  long  before  she 
saw  Lucy  Wentworth  on  her  way  to  the  dressing-room, 
and  expected  to  see  him  then,  but  he  was  not  with  her, 
as  a  moment  after  she  entered  leaning  on  her  father's 
arm.  She  was  a  graceful  girl,  although  not  exactly 
pretty,  with  mild  blue  eyes  and  soft  brown  hair.  As 
Medora  bent  in  the  courtesy  to  her  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  herself  in  an  opposite  mirror,  her  heart  swelled  with 
the  triumphant  consciousness  of  her  own  superior  beauty. 
"  Can  he  love  her,  when  he  sees  me  ?"  she  thought,  for- 
getting that  too  frequently  the  glitter  of  gold  outweighs 
the  sheen  of  golden  leeks,  and  diamonds  sparkle  with  a 
more  attractive  lustre  than  the  brightest  eyes.  " 

As  the  father  and  daughter  turned  away,  Mrs.  Clark- 
son  said  to  Medora — 

"  I  suppose  that  engagement  will  be  announced 
soon." 


Southwold.  2 

"  Whose  ?"  asked  Medora,  knowing  only  too  well  wh; 
she  was  about  to  hear. 

"  Why,  Lucy  Wentworth  and  Lascelles.  By-the-wa 
Medora,  I  always  had  a  suspicion  he  was  an  admirer  < 
yours." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Medora,  faintly. 

"  Of  course,  that  means  you  would  not  have  hii 
Well,  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  I  don't  like  him.  Lucy  Wen 
worth  is  a  great  deal  too  good  for  him.  But  here  1 
comes.  Good  evening,  Mr.  Lascelles." 

There  was  a  curling  smile  on  Medora's  lip,  and 
haughty  sweep  in  her  stately  courtesy  that  mac 
Lascelles  wince.  He  did  not  attempt  to  speak  with  he 
but  hastened  away  to  join  Lucy  Went  worth.  SI 
greeted  him  with  a  fond  blush  and  smile  that  soothe 
his  wounded  vanity  with  the  assurance  of  her  devote 
affection.  Yet,  ever  and  anon,  a  passionate  thrill  can 
over  him  as  Medora  floated  by  in  the  mazes  of  tl 
waltz,  a  dance  in  which  she  peculiarly  excelled,  for  si 
was  endowed  with  rare  grace  of  motion,  and  a  foot  ar 
ankle  said  to  be  unrivalled  in  the  city,  by  those  wl 
watch  at  ball-room  doors  for  the  occasional  glimpses  < 
those  mysterious  charms  which  the  dress  of  the  dz 
permits. 

As  the  hours  passed  on,  Lascelles  continued  perfect 
devoted  to  Lucy  Wentworth,  scarcely  leaving  her  sic 
for  a  moment.  Something  of  this  sort  Medora  ha 
expected,  but  not  that  his  attentions  would  be  so  pointe< 
She  was,  however,  too  much  mistress  of  herself  to  betrs 
any  jealousy.  Indeed,  her  pride  was  too  thorough! 
aroused  for  her  even  to  feel  at  the  moment  the  fu 
misery  of  her  situation.  She  was  determined  he  shoul 


3° 


Southwold. 


not  enjoy  the  triumph  of  seeing  her  suffer,  and,  there- 
fore, jested  merrily  on  this  new  engagement,  which, 
although  not  yet  announced,  was  the  theme  of  every 
tongue.  One  thing  she  had  fully  decided — that  she 
would  speak  to  Lascelles.  She  fancied  that  he  studiously 
avoided  her  even  in  the  dance,  but  was  resolved  not 
thus  to  be  foiled.  Was  she  to  be  flung  aside  thus  easily, 
like  a  faded  flower  or  a  broken  toy,  without  one  word 
of  regret  or  explanation  ?  Xo  !  a  thousand  times,  no ! 
All  the  evening,  while  apparently  only  occupied  with 
amusement  and  wholly  devoted  to  the  partner  of  the 
moment,  she  was  watching  with  eager  eyes  every  motion 
of  Lascelles.  Yet,  no  opportunity  of  accosting  him 
presented  itself. 

Supper  was  over,  and  she  began  to  fear  that  he  might 
leave  without  her  having  gained  her  point,  when  she 
saw  him  standing  with  a  group  of  young  men  at  one  of 
the  doors  of  the  ball-room.  She  at  once  decided  upon 
speaking  to  him  then,  confident  that  the  very  boldness 
of  the  proceeding  would  prevent  all  suspicion  of  the 
true  motive  of  her  conduct.  She  skilfully  decoyed 
young  Stuyvesant,  who  happened  at  the  time  to  be  her 
companion,  towards  the  door,  and  before  Lascelles  was 
aware  of  her  intention,  addressed  him  suddenly. 

"Mr.  Lascelles,  will  you  give  me  your  arm  for  a 
moment  ?  I  would  like  to  speak  to  you." 

This  was  said  with  a  smile  of  the  utmost  suavity. 
Of  course,  surrounded  by  young  men  as  he  was, 
there  was  no  escape.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment, 
and  even  he  was  deceived  by  the  serenity  of  her 
countenance,  as  he  bent  with  a  muttered — "  I  shall  be 
most  happy." 


Southwold.  31 

Medora  just  rested  the  tips  of  her  fingers  on  his  arm, 
and  with  a  graceful  bow  to  the  somewhat  puzzled  group, 
said  as  they  turned  away — 

"  You  will  excuse  Mr.  Lascelles,  gentlemen.  I  shall 
not  detain  him  long.  Mr.  Stuyvesant,  I  shall  rejoin  you 
before  the  waltz  is  over." 

The  hall  into  which  they  turned  was  almost  deserted, 
as  some  of  the  guests  had  already  left,  and  the  rest  were 
in  the  ball-room.  A  door  at  one  end  of  it  stood  open, 
for  the  night  was  unusually  warm  for  the  season,  and 
the  air  of  the  house,  heated  by  furnace  fires,  as  well 
as  by  two  hundred  palpitating  dancers,  was  unusually 
oppressive.  Before  they  had  gone  three  steps,  Medora 
had  dropped  her  hold  upon  an  arm  which,  light  as  was  the 
pressure  upon  it,  trembled  under  her  hand,  and  led  the  way 
out  on  to  a  balcony  which  overhung  the  deserted  street. 
The  night  air  struck  cold  and  damp  on  her  bare  arms 
and  shoulders,  but  was  powerless  to  chill  the  fierce  fires 
that  raged  in  her  bosom.  The  full  moon  shed  its  pure, 
pale  rays  over  the  quiet  city,  but  brought  no  calm  to 
her.  Long  hours  before,  the  great  metropolis  had  sunk 
to  sleep,  and  the  watchman  on  his  lonely  round  looked 
up  surprised  at  those  solitary  figures.  Little  could  he 
guess  that  in  those  low-spoken  words,  whose  faint 
echoes  scarcely  reached  him,  a  woman  was  resigning  all 
the  hopes  that  brighten  the  future — all  the  remem- 
brances that  sweeten  the  past.  Yet,  outwardly,  Me- 
dora was  as  calmly  self-possessed  as  if  the  interview 
she  had  solicited  was  for  the  purpose  of  making  an 
engagement  for  the  opera,  or  arranging  a  party  of  plea- 
sure. She  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"I  need  not  apologize  to  you  for  insisting  on  this 


32 


Southwold. 


interview.  You  are  aware  that  I  have  a  right  to  de- 
mand an  explanation  of  your  conduct." 

She  paused.  "Was  there  some  lingering  hope  that  he 
would  yet  return  to  his  former  allegiance?  If  so,  his 
first  words  undeceived  her. 

"  Medora !  I  am  poor.     If  it  were  not  for  that — " 

"  Enough !"  she  said,  with  haughty  impatience.  "  You 
need  say  no  more.  I  release  you  from  every  promise 
which  you  have  ever  given  me." 

"  Do  not  be  harsher  with  me  than  I  deserve,"  said 
Lascelles,  with  an  imploring  gesture,  and  turning  away 
from  the  fixed  look  of  those  eyes,  which  shone  with  an 
unearthly  glitter  in  the  moonlight. 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  blame  you,"  said  Medora  frigidly. 
"  I  have  nothing  to  add  but  this :  let  the  past  be  forgot- 
ten— henceforth  we  meet  only  as  strangers ;"  with  a 
stately  bow  she  made  a  step  forward,  but  in  order  to 
reach  the  door  she  must  pass  Lascelles,  and  with  a  sud- 
den gesture  he  detained  her,  while  he  said — 

"  Oh,  Medora,  let  us  not  part  so  coldly !  For  the 
sake  of  that  past,  bid  me  at  least  a  kind  farewell." 

One  moment's  hesitation,  then  she  calmly  said,  "  Cer- 
tainly," and  held  out  her  hand,  determined,  with  haughty 
pride,  that  he  should  not  have  the  satisfaction  of  think- 
ing that  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  permit  that 
adieu.  Lascelles  looked  at  her  earnestly.  There  was 
no  relenting  in  that  cold  face,  yet  he  raised  the  gloved 
hand,  and  pressed  it  passionately  to  his  lips. 

Medora  had  not  been  prepared  for  this.  She  started 
slightly,  but  instantly  recovered  her  superb  self-com- 
mand, and  with  a  quiet — "  Good  evening,"  swept  past 
him  into  the  hall.  In  another  moment  she  was  whirling 


Southwold.  33 

on  the  arm  of  her  expectant  partner,  who  little  guessed 
what  had  passed  in  that  few  minutes'  conversation — or, 
that  while  her  feet  kept  time  to  the  measure  of  the  waltz, 
her  brain  was  full  of  this  thought :  "  Henceforth  no  more 
love ;  and  since  that  is  over,  let  me  live  only  to  triumph." 

When  the  dance  was  done,  and  all  necessity  for  exer- 
tion had  ceased,  Medora  felt  sick  at  heart  and  longed  to 
be  alone.  She  walked  with  languid  steps  across  the 
now  almost  deserted  rooms  to  the  sofa  where  Mrs. 
Clarkson  had  thrown  herself,  worn  out  with  the  fatigues 
of  the  evening. 

"  Are  you  going,  dear  ?"  she  said.  "  Well,  I  won't 
urge  you  to  stay,  for  you  really  look  tired.  Le  Roy !  " 
Medora  is  ready  to  go,"  for  when  she  went  out  without 
her  mother,  Mr.  Clarkson  usually,  as  a  safe  married  man, 
acted  as  her  escort  home,  confident  that  his  charming 
wife  would  readily  obtain  some  other  attendant. 

Strange  custom  of  society  this  necessity  for  a  chape- 
rone.  How  often  do  we  see  a  gay  party  matronized  by 
some  wild  girl,  younger  and  more  full  of  animal  spirits 
than  many  of  those  under  her  charge,  and  what  guaran- 
tee of  propriety  is  there  when  a  young  husband  accom- 
panies, as  guardian,  some  fascinating  belle,  leaving  his 
pretty  wife  to  be  her  own  chaperone,  during  a  tete-d-tete 
drive  with  some  gallant  admirer. 

Only  once  more  did  Medora  arouse  herself,  and  that 
was  when'  on  her  way  to  the  carriage  she  met  Miss 
Wentworth  and  Lascelles.  She  bowed  to  them  with  a 
bland  smile,  yet  the  look  that  flashed  from  her  eyes  as 
she  passed,  was  like  that  with  which  the  wronged 
Medea  regarded  Jason  and  Creusa  when  she  plotted  her 
deadly  revenge. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"With  dove-like  wings  peace  o'er  yon  village  broods." 

The  Sabbath. — GRAHAM. 

"  Cette  lettre  vous  surprendra  sans  doute." 

LEcole  des  Maris. — MOLIERE. 

AMONG  the  many  beautiful  villages  that  lie  along  the 
Sound  coast  of  New  England,  there  is  none  more 
beautiful  than  Stratford.  It  rests  among  green  mea- 
dows, on  the  shore  of  the  peaceful  Housatonic,  where  it 
pours  its  calm  waters  into  the  sea.  It  has  wide  streets, 
full  of  glorious  old  elms,  and  quaint  houses  looking  out 
over  neat  white  palings.  It  has  a  village  green,  where, 
at  the  foot  of  a  low  sloping  hill,  stand  side  by  side  the 
grey  old  church  that  has  been  the  mother  of  our  faith 
in  the  state,  and  the  little  brick  school-house  that  has 
taught  and  sheltered  the  childhood  of  four  generations. 
The  past  half  century  has  wrought  few  changes  there  ; 
an  eternal  Sabbath  broods  over  its  quiet  shades ;  not  even 
the  rapid  steps  of  progress  as  yet  have  disturbed  its 
profound  repose. 

It  is  as  if  years  ago  some  weird  enchantress  had 
waved  her  fairy  wand  over  the  lovely  village,  and  held 
it  in  a  sweet  spell  of  perpetual  tranquillity.  Long  may 
it  be  ere  it  is  broken ! 

One  bright  May  afternoon  the  sunshine  that  danced 


Southwold.  35 

on  the  waves  and  slept  on  the  grass,  fell  in  a  broad 
band  of  radiance  into  the  wide  hall  of  the  old  Thornton 
house  in  Stratford.  It  came  in  through  the  quaint  fan- 
light over  the  door,  and  glancing  along  the  dark  wain- 
scoting, shone  resplendent  from  the  plate  of  the  tall, 
old-fashioned  clock,  and  fell  in  a  shower  of  gold  on  the 
clustering  curls  of  a  child  standing  in  front  of  it.  She 
was  just  on  the  verge  of  womanhood,  her  whole  atti- 
tude and  figure  were  full  of  grace  and  refinement  as  she 
stood  there  in  her  simple  calico  dress,  her  large  dark 
eyes  fixed  wistfully  on  the  kindly  face  of  the  venerable 
time-piece,  that  for  ninety  years  had  repeated  the  same 
endless  song. 

"  Five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty,"  whispered  the  little  girl, 
and  then  aloud,  "  it's  just  twenty  minutes  and  a  half 
past  five,  cousin  Floyd." 

"Is  it  so  late  as  that?"  said  the  voice  of  a  young 
man  from  an  adjoining  room,  "  then  the  mail  must  have 
been  in  some  time,  and  we  will  go  at  once." 

As  he  uttered  the  last  words  the  speaker  entered  the 
hall.  He  was  not  more  than  twenty-two,  though  his 
full,  dark  beard,  made  him  look  somewhat  older.  His 
face  was  strikingly  handsome,  with  soft,  deep-set  eyes, 
and  a  mouth  of  remarkable  sweetness  ;  his  broad,  intel- 
lectual forehead,  was  shaded  by  masses  of  chestnut  hair, 
and  the  young  Achilles  had  not  a  figure  of  more  grace 
and  activity.  He  approached  his  cousin  with  a  smile 
that  well  displayed  his  splendid  teeth. 

"  Are  you  not  ashamed,  Nannie,  not  to  be  able  to  tell 
time  without  counting ;  why,  you  are  too  old  for  that ; 
do  you  know  you  will  be  fifteen  next  birthday  ?" 

"  Oh,  cousin   Floyd,"   exclaimed   Nannie,   blushing, 


36  Southwold. 

"  did  you  hear  me  ?  I  thought  I  spoke  so  softly  that 
you  couldn't,  but  it  is  so  much  easier  to  count,"  she 
added,  apologetically. 

"Well,  next  time  try  to  do  without  it;  but  come, 
here  is  your  hat,  now  let  us  go." 

Nannie  tied  on  the  fancifully  trimmed  straw  flat  he 
handed  her,  and  the  two  went  out  over  the  low  "  stoop" 
and  gravelled  walk,  and  up  the  quiet  street,  under  the 
shade  of  the  great  trees  now  clothed  in  the  delicate 
green  of  early  spring,  to  the  very  old  building  which 
united  in  one  small  room  a  grocery,  dry  goods  esta- 
blishment, news  depot,  and  post-office.  It  was  a  queer 
place  that  country  store :  the  wall  overhead  painted  of 
a  deep  blue,  with  the  great  rafters,  which  traversed  it, 
hung  with  samples  of  the  heterogeneous  wares  which 
could  there  be  purchased.  On  one  side,  around  a  rusty 
stove,  winter  or  summer,  two  or  three  of  the  village 
worthies  were  always  to  be  found  discussing  the  news 
of  the  day ;  the  opposite  space  was  occupied  with  the 
counter  and  goods  of  the  shop  ;  while  from  behind  the 
small  array  of  boxes,  which  the  wants  of  Stratford  re- 
quired, the  venerable  postmaster,  with  laborious  care, 
dispensed  the  few  epistles  which  the  lean  mail-bag 
brought  twice  a  day  to  his  inspection. 

"  Anything  for  me,  Mr.  Brooks  ?"  asked  the  young 
man,  in  a  cheery  voice. 

The  old  gentleman  glanced  out,  over  his  spectacles, 
and  said  slowly — 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Southwold." 

Then  selecting  a  letter  from  one  of  the  little  pigeon- 
holes, he  carefully  perused  the  address  before  handing 
it  to  the  expectant  owner,  although  he  knew  perfectly 


Southwold.  37 

well  that  it  belonged  to  him,  from  the  fact  that  he  had 
placed  it  there  some  half  hour  previously.  Mr.  South- 
wold  waited  good-naturedly,  and  took  it  with  a  polite 
"  Thank  you,"  as  he  turned  away. 

He  broke  the  seal  and  then  said,  in  answer  to  his  cou- 
sin's inquiring  glance — 

"It  is  from  uncle  Southwold,  but  he  is  not  a  fre- 
quent correspondent,  and  it  is  some  time  since  we  heard 
from  him." 

He  read  the  letter  hastily,  muttered  to  himself 
"  Queer  "  as  he  finished  it,  and  then  added  aloud  to  his 
little  cousin,  who  still  regarded  him  earnestly — 

"  You  need  not  look  so  disappointed,  Nannie,  it  shall 
not  interfere  with  our  walk.  Which  way  shall  we  go  ? 
what  do  you  say  to  Tea-party  lane  ?" 

At  this  her  face  brightened,  she  gave  a  joyous  assent, 
and  they  started  at  the  brisk  pace  of  accomplished  pe- 
destrians, down  the  village  street,  out  over  the  sandy 
road,  and  into  the  quiet  path,  all  shady  with  trees,  and 
redolent  with  the  sweet  smells  of  the  woods,  which  con- 
nected two  distant  parts  of  the  straggling  village.  It 
had  been  constructed  at  some  remote  period  by  the  far- 
mers of  the  neighborhood  for  the  ease  and  accommoda- 
tion of  their  wives  and  sweethearts,  when  they  were 
minded  to  congregate  together  for  the  quiet  enjoyment 
of  a  "  dish  of  tea"  and  scandal. 

The  Thornton  house  was  so  called  because,  for  more 
than  three  quarters  of  century,  it  had  been  the  residence 
of  the  Thornton  family,  the  last  person  of  that  name 
who  held  it  being  Mr.  John  Thornton.  His  only  child, 
who  reached  maturity,  was  a  daughter.  Miss  Ellen 


38  Southwold. 

attracted  numerous  suitors  to  quiet  Stratford,  and  at 
last  made  a  worthy  choice  in  Mr.  Henry  Southwold,  a 
young  gentleman  of  handsome  person  and  pleasing  man- 
ners, who  was  established  in  a  lucrative  business  in  New 
York.  He  was  one  of  two  brothers,  sole  representa- 
tives of  an  old  and  honorable  family.  The  elder,  Floyd, 
so  named  from  the  Long  Island  house  whence  their 
lovely  mother  came,  inherited  Southwold,  the  old  fa- 
mily seat,  consisting  of  the  homestead,  and  many  noble 
acres  on  the  east  bank  of  the  Hudson. 

Two  sons  were  born  to  Mr.  Henry  Southwold.  The 
elder  was  called  after  the  father ;  the  second,  Mr.  Floyd 
Southwold,  who  had  not  yet  married,  earnestly  re- 
quested might  be  named  after  himself,  expressing  it  to 
be  his  fixed  determination  to  remain  a  bachelor,  and  to 
adopt  the  boy  as  his  own.  His  wish  was  readily  com- 
plied with,  though  at  the  time  the  light-hearted  young 
couple  regarded  it  as  very  improbable  that  their  hand- 
some and  wealthy  brother  would  adhere  to  his  resolu- 
tion. When,  in  the  course  of  time,  Mr.  John  Thornton 
died,  Mr.  Henry  Southwold  sold  the  farm,  which  had 
been  his  principal  property,  only  retaining  the  home- 
stead, which,  as  it  stood  in  the  centre  of  Stratford, 
formed  a  pleasant  country  residence. 

Was  there  anything  in  that  "beautiful  summer  of  '36 
to  presage  the  ruin  that  was  to  come  at  its  close  ?  was 
the  sunshine  less  bright,  and, the  fields  less  green?  did 
the  brooks  sparkle  less  merrily,  and  the  birds  sing  less 
sweetly  because  they  knew  that  when  their  reign  was 
over,  and  the  dark  winter  had  come  with  his  chains  of 
ice,  there  would  be  destruction  and  want  over  the 
whole  of  our  fair  land?  However  lovingly  the  seasons 


Southwold.  39 

lingered,  still  the  remorseless  fates  sped  on  the  lagging 
hours,  and  when  the  year  drew  to  its  close,  our  young 
Kepublic  was  convulsed  to  its  very  heart  with  a  fearful 
panic.  All  confidence  was  gome ;  men  looked  at  each 
other  with  distrustful  eyes:  and  well  they  might,  for 
many  of  those  whose  names  stood  highest  for  probity 
and  honor,  were  weighed  in  the  balance,  and  found 
wanting.  Commerce  almost  ceased;  trade  scarce  ex- 
isted: the  relentless  river  of  destruction  carried  all 
before  it. 

Among  those  mercantile  houses  that  longest  stemmed 
the  resistless  torrent,  was  that  of  "  Henry  Southwold  & 
Co.,"  but  at  last  that  too  went  down.  Long  did  the 
young  man  struggle  against  the  pressure  that  was  bear- 
ing him  to  the  earth,  only  to  sink  at  last  all  the  more 
hopelessly.  To  one  to  whom  honor  was  dearer  than 
life,  the  blow  was  fatal ;  and  after  months  of  ceaseless, 
though  unavailing  application  to  business,  his  overtasked 
strength  gave  way,  and  like  too  many  others — the  vic- 
tims of  that  great  crisis  —  he  sank  into  a  premature 
grave. 

The  heartbroken  widow,  with  her  two  little  boys, 
sought  an  unostentatious  asylum  in  her  early  home.  Out 
of  the  wreck  of  the  great  fortune  that  had  heen  hers 
during  her  happy  wifehood,  enough  was  saved  for  a 
competence.  As  it  had  never  been  necessary  to  sell  the 
old  house,  she  resumed  possession  of  it.  It  was  then 
that  her  brother-in-law,  whose  fortune,  invested  as  it 
was  in  broad  acres,  had  passed  through  the  storm 
unscathed,  reminded  her  of  his  promise  to  adopt  her 
second  son.  Mrs.  Southwold  could  hardly  bring  herself 
to  contemplate  this  proposal,  and  while  she  was  hesi- 


40  Southwold. 

tating  its  acceptance,  a  blow  fell  which  for  ever  precluded 
the  possibility  of  entertaining  it. 

During  the  first  year  of  her  residence  in  Stratford, 
she  lost  her  first-born  ;  while  she  was  yet  weeping  over 
his  new-made  grave,  Mr.  Southwold  urged  an  answer  to 
his  offer ;  her  refusal  was,  perhaps,  somewhat  hasty,  for 
she  was  hurt  at  what  she  deemed  unkind  haste.  Whe- 
ther from  this,  or  some  other  cause,  the  offer  was  not 
renewed,  although  he  continued  to  pay  her  his  regular 
semi-annual  visits. 

So  the  years  rolled  peacefully  on.  Mrs.  Southwold 
was  comparatively  happy;  she  was  among  the  friends 
of  her  childhood,  with  whom  she  had  ever  been  a  favor- 
ite, from  her  unfailing  kindness  and  benevolence.  By 
every  sick  bed,  and  in  every  house  of  mourning,  she 
was  the  gentle  nurse,  the  tender  consoler.  She  saw  her 
son  growing  up  all  that  her  heart  could  desire.  Yet, 
as  time  passed  on,  and  the  wealth  and  luxury  of  our 
country  increased,  she  began  to  feel  that  their  limited 
income  was  too  small  to  gratify,  as  she  would  wish,  his 
scholarly  and  expensive  tastes.  He  had  now  been  at 
home  from  college  two  years,  and  she  had  as  yet  been 
unable  to  send  him  to  the  city  to  complete  the  legal 
studies  which  he  was  endeavoring  to  pursue  without 
assistance  at  home.  It  is  true  she  might,  through  her 
late  husband's  friends,  have  procured  him  a  situation  in 
some  mercantile  establishment,  but  Floyd  himself  had 
no  preference  for  such  pursuits,  and  she  shrank  fearfully 
from  embarking  the  son  in  the  same  career  that  had 
ended  so  disastrously  for  the  father.  * 

This  spring,  Mrs.  Southwold  had  felt  more  than  ever 
harassed,  and  it  was  a  welcome  relief  from  her  own 


South  wold.  41 

anxious  thoughts  to  have  the  society  of  a  bright  young 
girl  like  Nannie  Floyd,  her  son's  second-cousin.  She 
was  one  of  a  large  family,  and  always  rejoiced  greatly 
when  she  received  an  invitation  to  Stratford  from  her 
"  dear  Aunt  Ellen."  Although  not  a  girl  of  much  vigor 
of  intellect,  and  in  many  respects  childish  beyond  her 
years,  she  had  one  recommendation,  which,  in  the  eyes 
of  so  fond  a  mother  as  Mrs.  Southwold,  was  beyond  all 
others — her  affectionate  admiration  for  Floyd  was  un- 
bounded. It  sometimes  crossed  her  aunt's  mind  that, 
now  that  Nannie  was  almost  a  woman,  this  might  prove 
something  serious ;  but  the  idea  was  by  no  means  un- 
pleasing,  as  she  felt  that  in  the  warm-hearted  and  unsel- 
fish girl,  her  son  would  find  a  wife  who  would  supply 
the  tender  devotion  she  had  lavished  upon  him  from  his 
earliest  infancy. 

To  a  thoughtful  boy  like  Floyd,  who  from  his  very 
amiability  was  easily  influenced  by  those  around  him, 
the  companionship  of  a  woman  of  his  mother's  cultivated 
mind  and  strong  energy  of  character  was  invaluable.  It 
had  assisted  greatly  in  making  him  what  he  was,  a  man  of 
refined  tastes,  gentle  manners,  and  profound  scholarship. 

Mrs.  Southwold  sat  this  afternoon  at  the  window  of  a 
small  parlor,  which  was  furnished  without  much  expense 
yet  with  the  most  exquisite  taste.  Her  busy  fingers 
were  occupied  with  some  embroidery — a  favorite  amuse- 
ment, for  in  all  the  feminine  accomplishments  of  the  needle 
her  skill  was  famous.  She  was  still  a  handsome  woman, 
although  her  figure  had  lost  somewhat  of  its  early  grace 
in  the  comfortable  plumpness  of  middle  life.  Her  very 
fine  hair  and  teeth  made  her  look  many  years  younger 
than  she  really  was,  yet  the  true  charm  of  her  countenance 


42  Southwold. 

was  in  its  mild  and  benevolent  expression  and  the  clear 
light  of  her  kindly  eyes. 

She  looked  up  from  her  work,  when  the  gate  opened 
on  the  return  of  the  cousins  from  their  walk,  greeting 
them  with  a  bright  smile  and  a  friendly  nod. 

"  I  have  a  letter  from  Uncle  Southwold,"  said  Floyd 
as  he  entered  the  room. 

"  Well,  what  does  he  say  ?" 

"  It  is  rather  peculiar.    I  will  read  it  if  you  like." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  his  mother,  and  Floyd  began  as 
follows : 

"  Southujold,  May  15th,  185- 

"  MY  DEAE  JfEPHEW 

"  It  has  doubtless  sometimes  surprised  you  that  you  have  never 
received  an  invitation  to  visit  me  here.  My  reasons  for  that  apparent 
discourtesy  it  is  now  time  that  I  explain.  You  are  perhaps  not 
aw  are  that  when  I  desired  that  you  should  receive  my  name  I  coupled 
the  request  with  the  promise  that  I  would  one  day  adopt  you  as  my 
heir. 

"  Of  that  agreement  I  was  not  unmindful,  and  many  years  ago  pro- 
posed to  fulfil  it,  but  just  at  that  time  your  elder  brother  died,  and  your 
mother  thought  fit  peremptorily  to  decline  the  offer.  I  have  never 
renewed  it,  as  I  considered  myself,  by  that  action,  absolved  from  my 
pledge.  Prevented  from  directing  your  education  myself,  I  waited  to 
see  what  you  were  likely  to  become.  I  have  watched  your  career 
closely,  and  thus  far  have  not  been  dissatisfied. 

"  It  is  now  my  wish  that  you  come  and  see  Southwold.  Do  not 
misunderstand  me,  nor  imagine  that  I  intend  more  than  I  say.  I 
simply  desire  that  you  make  your  arrangements  to  pass  at  least  a  por- 
tion of  the  summer  here. 

"  Please  give  me  your  answer  as  soon  as  possible.  "With  regards  to 
your  mother,  I  remain 

"  Your  affectionate  uncle, 

"FLOYD  SOUTHWOLD.*' 


Southwold.  43 

"  How  characteristic !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Southwold. 

"  What  shall  I  do  about  it  ?"  asked  Floyd. 

"  Accept  of  course." 

This  was  said  so  easily  that  her  son  little  suspected 
the  conflict  that  had  passed  in  her  bosom  during  the 
perusal  of  that  brief  note.  To  separate  from  her  son 
even  for  a  few  weeks  was  always  a  trial ;  how  great  a 
one  then  was  this  proposed  absence,  which  would  certainly 
be  for  months,  and  might  be  for  a  much  longer  period. 
Yet  as  she  had  often  reproached  herself  for  haste  in 
declining  his  Uncle's  first  offer,  she  determined  to  urge 
her  son's  acceptance  of  this,  harshly  as  it  was  made. 

"But  how  can  I  leave  you,  mother?"  said  Floyd 
tenderly. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  do  very  well,  I  have  no  doubt.  Nannie 
will  be  able  to  stay  with  me,  so  you  must  give  your- 
self no  uneasiness  on  my  account,  but  remain  as  long  as 
you  like." 

So  Mrs.  Southwold  did  all  in  her  power  to  expedite 
the  departure  of  her  son,  never  permitting  herself  to 
dwell  on  the  long  lonely  hours  that  she  must  pass  when 
the  light  of  her  house  was  gone,  but  keeping  up  her 
wonted  cheerfulness,  and  Mdding  him  a  smiling  good- 
by. 


CHAPTER  V. 

'•  It  was  in  the  time  that  the  earth  begins  to  put  on  her  new  appa- 
rel against  the  approach  of  her  lover,  and  that  ^he  SUDj  running  a 
more  even  course,  becomes  an  indifferent  arbiter  between  the  day  and 
the  night" 

Arcadia. — SIB  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

"  Farewell,  tho'  death  be  in  the  word — 
For  ever!" 

Cato. — ADDISON. 

"  Our  souls  are  in  a  miserable  captivity  if  the  light  of  grace  and 
heavenly  truth  doth  not  shine  continually  upon  us." 

BURTON'S  ANATOMY  OF  MELANCHOLY. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  spring  morning,  so  early  that  there 
was  a  crimson  glow  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  grass  was 
drenched  with  the  last  night's  dew.  Floyd  stood  on  the 
platform  of  the  little  station-house  awaiting  the  train, 
enjoying  keenly  the  gorgeous  tinting  of  the  eastern  sky 
and  the  fresh  purity  of  the  bracing  air.  He  was  accom- 
panied by  Nannie,  and  surrounded  by  a  group  of 
friends,  gentlemen  whose  business  called  them  to  the 
city,  and  a  few  heroic  ladies  who  had  risen  to  see  them 
off.  He  had  a  smile  and  a  kind  word  for  every  one, 
for  he  was  full  of  pleasurable  excitement  at  the  pro- 
posed change,  and  with  the  hopefulness  of  youth  looked 
forward  with  bright  anticipations  to  his  new  life, 


Southwold.  45 

dreaming  of  future  happiness  and  enjoyments,  as  only 
they  can  dream  who  have  never  known  the  -sickening 
disappointments,  the  cares,  and  the  sorrows  that  await 
even  the  most  successful. 

Very  soon  there  was  a  distant  whistle,  then  a  wreath 
of  white  smoke  curled  up  above  a  group  of  trees,  and  in 
another  moment  the  train  thundered  up  the  track.  A 
hasty  good-by,  a  kiss  to  Nannie,  and  with  its  freight  of 
busy  passengers  it  dashed  away  down  the  long  vista 
of  woods,  over  the  salt  marsh,  and  by  the  shore,  now 
through  a  scattered  village,  then  by  a  busy  town,  upon 
perilous  bridges  and  embankments,  and  at  last  through  a 
dark  tunnel  into  the  great  metropolis. 

Immediately  upon  their  arrival  every  one  appeared 
seized  with  the  contagious  bustle  and  confusion,  and 
rushed  desperately  off  as  if  some  fearful  calamity  de- 
pended upon  the  delay  of  a  moment.  Escaping  as  soon 
as  possible  from  the  hurrying  crowd,  Floyd  strolled  idly 
away  towards  the  great  thoroughfare  of  Broadway — 
choosing  his  way,  with  the  vain  hope  of  finding  shade, 
under  the  stumpy  trees  of  Union  Square,  marvelling 
much  in  passing  at  the  melancholy  fountain  that  never 
plays. 

Arrived  opposite  Grace  Church  his  vagrant  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  line  of  private  carriages  drawn  up 
before  it.  The  veiled  lady  in  her  snowy  dress,  the  bevy 
of  fair  bridesmaids,  and  the  profusion  of  white  favors, 
at  once  informed  him  that  it  was  a  wedding ;  and  with 
the  curiosity  of  idleness,  he  turned  into  the  church. 

He  had  some  difficulty  in  making  his  way  through  the 
crowd  at  the  door,  and  during  the  momentary  delay  he 
said  to  a  gentlemanly  person  who  was  near  him : 


46  Southwold. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  sir,  the  names  of  the  bridal 
couple?"' 

"With  pleasure;  the  lady  is  Miss  Wentworth,  the 
only  child  of  one  of  our  wealthiest  citizens  ;  the  gentle- 
man is  a  Mr.  Lascelles." 

Floyd  thanked  his  polite  informant,  wondering  a  lit- 
tle as  he  walked  on,  at  the  covert  sneer  of  his  last 
words.  At  the  time  he  attributed  it  less  to  the  insigni- 
ficance of  the  man  himself  than  to  that  universal  feeling 
among  the  sex,  whether  it  be  abstract  envy  or  jealousy, 
that  leads  them  to  disparage  the  fortunate  winner  of  any 
lady  who  has  sufficient  attractions  either  of  beauty  or 
riches  to  render  her  alliance  peculiarly  desirable. 

The  first  thing  that  attracted  Floyd's  attention  after 
he  had  taken  his  seat,  was  the  building  itself.  The 
dashing  queen  of  city  churches,  with  its  light  walls  and 
gaudy  windows,  struck  him  as  being  far  more  appropri- 
ate as  a  fane  of  fashion  than  a  temple  for  the  solemn 
worship  of  the  great  Jehovah.  The  sound  of  low  laugh- 
ter and  only  half-whispered  conversation,  which  mingled 
with  the  peal  of  the  noble  organ,  jarred  disagreeably  on 
his  nerves. 

He  next  turned  with  kindly  curiosity  to  examine 
those  who  were  about  to  be  joined  hi  bonds  indissoluble 
except  by  death  or  crime.  The  fair  young  bride 
seemed  fully  impressed  with  the  solemnity  of  the 
moment ;  her  eyes  were  full  of  unshed  tears,  and  her 
whole  figure  trembled  with  emotion.  Her  companion, 
on  the  contrary,  had  anything  but  the  joyous  look  a 
man  should  wear  when  he  wins  the  woman  who  holds 
his  heart.  There  was  only  ill-concealed  annoyance  in 
his  knit  brow,  and  cold  calculation  in  his  sinister 


Southwold.  47 

glances.  He  was  deadly  pale,  with  a  spot  of  hectic  red 
on  either  cheek,  and  it  seemed  an  effort  for  him  to  give 
even  decent  attention  to  the  service ;  and  well  it  might 
be  so,  for  there  close  beside  him  stood  Medora  Field- 
ing. 

She  was  not  among  the  bridesmaids,  but  formed  one 
of  the  group  of  young  friends  who  had  been  asked  to 
attend  in  the  demi-toilette  suited  to  the  morning  recep- 
tion that  was  to  follow.  She  was  looking  magnificently 
in  a  blue  silk  of  so  exquisite  a  shade  that  you  would 
have  thought  it  had  been  matched  to  the  clear  azure  of 
her  eyes.  No  one  could  have  guessed  that  the  calm  indif- 
ference of  her  manner  concealed  a  volcano  of  rage  and 
scorn.  Fortunate  was  it  for  that  confiding  bride  that 
she  possessed  not  the  power  of  the  fabled  Medusa,  even 
though  her  glances  should  yet  prove  more  fatal  to  her 
happiness  than  if  they  had  that  moment  stopped  the 
warm  life-blood  at  her  heart,  and  turned  her  into  stone. 

Medora  was  one  of  the  first  to  kiss  and  congratulate 
"  Mrs.  Lascelles  ;"  then  she  turned  to  the  bridegroom : 

"  Allow  me  to  wish  you  every  happiness." 

The  words  were  so  calmly  spoken  that  he  regarded 
her  with  sudden  surprise.  Was  this  the  woman  who 
three  short  months  before  had  hung  upon  his  every  word 
with  passionate  fondness  ?  His  eyes  for  a  moment  rested 
longingly  on  her  graceful  form  as  she  turned  away;  even 
then  the  old  charm  was  not  altogether  broken.  Will  it 
ever  be  ?  Do  you  think  the  lover  of  Rhodadaphne  could 
have  been  entirely  faithful  to  his  "mountain  maid"  unless 
the  beautiful  enchantress  had  been  lost  to  him  for  ever  ? 

As  Floyd  Southwold  waited  in  the  vestibule  for  the 
bridal  party  to  pass,  a  lady  in  the  group  dropped  her 


48  Southwold. 

fan.  Although  there  were  several  gentlemen  with  her, 
no  one  appeared  to  notice  it  until  he  sprang  forward  to 
pick  it  up ;  then  many  eager  hands  were  stretched  forth, 
but  too  late.  Floyd,  with  a  courteous  smile,  presented 
it  to  Medora ;  he  had  intended  to  utter  some  common- 
place words,  but  the  syllables  died  on  his  lips  as  his 
glance  fell  on  that  superb  beauty. 

Never  in  his  wildest  dreams  had  he  conceived  any- 
thing so  lovely ;  and  had  her  polite  "  thank  you,  sir," 
been  some  weird  incantation  he  could  not  have  been 
more  completely  spell-bound.  He  bowed  with  mechani- 
cal civility,  but  could  not  take  his  gaze  from  that  face 
whose  perfect  outlines  had  been  fatal  to  the  peace  of  so 
many.  He  followed  her  as  if  it  had  been  a  visible  chain 
that  enslaved  him,  and  watched  with  eager  eyes  while 
she  waited  for  her  carriage,  and  was  handed  in  by  some 
fortunate  youth  whom  he  regarded  with  intense  envy 
because  for  one  moment  that  tiny  gloved  hand  rested  in 
his. 

The  crowd  dispersed,  there  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  linger,  and  he  walked  slowly  away,  bewildered 
as  one  recovering  from  a  trance.  All  day  long  he  was 
haunted  by  that  fair  vision;  it  made  him  strangely 
awkward  in  the  execution  of  the  trifling  business  to 
which  he  was  obliged  to*  attend ;  and  during  the  night 
ride  on  the  noisy  and  dusty  railroad  which  desecrates 
the  shores  of  the  beautiful  Hudson,  his  few  snatches  of 
sleep  were  haunted  with  the  golden  hair  and  the  azure 
eyes  of  the  lovely  unknown. 

And  where,  meanwhile,  was  the  heroine  of  his  dreams? 
Back  again  in  that  little  parlor,  now  all  the  more  dingy 
in  the  growing  brightness  of  spring,  she  was  leaning  out 


Southwold.  49 

of  an  open  window,  and  gazing  at  the  dull  red  glow 
which  was  all  of  the  sunset  ever  seen  there,  she  was 
thinking  how  glorious  must  be  the  radiance  of  the 
declining  day  on  that  ocean,  over  which  the  great  steamer 
was  already  bearing  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  to 
spend  the  first  honeymoons  of  marriage  in  rambling 
over  Europe. 

She  was  quite  alone,  and  after  a  few  moments  her 
head  sank  on  her  folded  arms.  Hot  bitter  tears  forced 
themselves  through  her  closed  lids,  and  her  whole  frame 
shook  with  passionate  sobs.  The  pent-up  anguish  of 
that  long,  wretched  day,  at  last  found  vent ;  her  crushed 
heart  moaned  in  a  low  wail  over  the  broken  dream,  the 
faithless  lover.  And  while  she  was  struggling  alone  with 
her  sorrow,  he  was  unmindful  of  her,  absorbed  in  his  fair 
young  wife,  and  enjoying  every  luxury  that  wealth  could 
give.  For  her  there  was  no  hope  of  escape  from  the 
poverty  she  so  loathed,  except  by  giving  her  hand  with- 
out her  heart ;  a  dreary  prospect,  to  one  so  ardent  as 
herself.  Pride  had  supported  her  while  she  was  sur- 
rounded by  curious  eyes,  but  now,  alone,  with  no  one  to 
see  her  weep  but  darkness  and  silence,  the  full  tide  of 
her  grief  and  despair  overflowed  in  scalding  tears  that, 
far  from  refreshing  her  parched  soul,  feel  like  the  dews 
of  the  deadly  Upas,  each  one  a  drop  of  poison. 

Yet,  that  night  was  the  last  that  Medora  Fielding 
gave  to  lamentations.  The  agony  she  had  endured 
during  Lascelles'  brief  engagement  had  been  fearful ;  all 
the  more  so  because  she  had  spent  most  of  her  time  in 
a  round  of  fashionable  gaiety,  where  she  was  obliged  to 
make  a  constant  effort  to  appear  in  her  usual  spirits.  To 
a  strong  passionate  nature  like  hers,  the  crushing  out  of 
3 


^o  Southwold. 

the  love  that  had  been  its  life,  was  a  fearful  blow ;  her 
whole  soul  staggered  under  the  shock,  and  in  some  of 
the  long  hours  that  she  spent  in  tossing  on  a  restless 
couch  it  seemed  as  if  reason  itself  tottered  on  its  throne. 

And  she  groped  all  her  weary  way  through  this  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  Death,  without  one  ray  of  light  from 
above.  Religion  had  never  been  more  to  her  than  a 
name ;  and  in  this  hour  of  trial,  instead  of  bowing  to 
whatever  might  be  the  sorrows  of  her  lot,  she  rebelled 
madly  at  what  she  deemed  an  unjust  punishment. 
There  was  no  one  with  whom  she  would  converse 
regarding  her  feelings.  She  was  too  haughtily  proud  to 
seek  consolation  from  strangers,  and  she  had  discovered 
long  ago  that  her  mother  could'  not  give  one  reason  for 
the  faith  she  professed,  and  would  utterly  fail  of  any 
kind  sympathy  in  her  disappointment  or  loving  counsel 
for  the  future.  As  for  consulting  with  her  upon  the 
subject  of  her  harassing  doubts,  she  knew  well  she 
should  receive  the  old  answer  which  had  met  all  previ- 
ous inquiries  and  already  done  infinite  harm. 

"  My  dear,  you  should  not  ask  such  questions ;  it  is  very 
wrong  to  argue  upon  religion." 

Of  course  an  intelligent  girl  like  Medora  was  sure  to 
th:nk— 

"  It  must  be  a  poor  creed  that  will  not  stand  the  test 
of  discussion." 

With  a  mind  already  inclined  to  scepticism,  this  was 
almost  enough  to  prove  the  falsity  of  the  system  so 
weakly  defended.  Had  it  been  otherwise— had  she  fallen 
under  wiser  and  gentler  influences — this  trial,  perhaps 
more  severe  to  one  of  her  temperament  than  anything 
conceivable,  might  have  had  upon  her  a  most  chasten- 


South  wold.  51 

ing  and  ennobling  effect,  turning  all  her  great  talents 
and  immense  energies  to  the  working  of  much  good 
both  to  herself  and  others. 

In  almost  every  life  there  is  some  great  turning-point, 
some  ordeal  either  of  joy  or  grief,  which  tests  the  charac- 
ter to  the  utmost.  The  manner  in  which  that  crisis  is 
met,  shapes  either  for  good  or  evil  the  whole  future 
career.  At  such  a  moment,  when  this  world  seems  all 
too  short  for  enjoyment  or  too  long  for  suffering,  every 
reflecting  person  is  forced  to  contemplate  that  shadowy 
hereafter,  which  one  day  we  all  must  enter — then  either 
to  the  trembling  rejoicer  or  the  weeping  mourner  there 
is  a  wealth  of  consolation  in  that  unquestioning  faith, 
which  rests  confidently  on  that  Superior  Power  that 
orders  "  all  things  well."  But  if  at  that  awful  time,  the 
mind,  either  from  the  force  of  circumstances  or  from 
some  inherent  defect,  refuses  to  the  Creator  the  homage 
of  either  thanksgiving  or  prayer,  and  with  defiant  incre- 
dulity, riots  in  ungrateful  enjoyment  or  mourns  in  ray- 
less  despair,  dreadful,  indeed,  is  it  to  contemplate  what 
must  be  the  utter  hopelessness  of  that  lost  soul ! 

When  that  last  night  of  grief  was  past,  Medora  rose 
up,  and  relying  solely  on  herself,  with  no  more  faith  in 
the  restraints  of  either  virtue  or  religion,  except  so 
far  as  they  agreed  with  policy,  resolutely  put  aside  all 
thoughts  of  the  past,  and  determine^  to  bring  every 
energy  to  bear  upon  obtaining  success,  by  any  means 
however  unscrupulous. 

There  is  something  truly  fearful  in  the  power  for  evil, 
which  that  woman  possesses,  perfectly  beautiful,  su- 
premely fascinating,  and  utterly  unprincipled ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  It  was  a  venerable  mansion,  half  villa,  half  farm-house." 

Mountjoy. — IRVING. 

"  For  just  experience  tells  in  every  soil, 
That  those  that  think  must  govern  those  that  toil." 

The  Traveller. — GOLDSMITH. 

IT  had  been  dark  some  hours  when  Floyd  reached  the 
nearest  station  to  Southwold.  He  found  his  uncle's 
carriage  awaiting  him,  and  was  soon  rolling  over  a  fine 
road  towards  that  old  homestead  of  the  family,  which 
he  had  so  long  wished  to  behold,  and  of  which  he  had  so 
often  dreamed.  There  was  no  moon,  so  that  he  could 
only  see  the  dim  outline  of  the  rustic  lodge  at  the  gate : 
and  once  inside,  the  shadow  of  the  avenue  of  trees  was 
so  deep,  that  it  was  impossible  to  discover  anything 
beyond  the  drooping  branches,  as  one  after  another  they 
were  illumined  by  the  fitful  gleam  of  the  coach  lanterns 
in  passing.  After  a  diive  of  some  three  quarters  of  a 
mile  they  came  into  an  open  space,  Floyd  distinguished 
the  lights  from  a  large  house,  and  in  another  instant  the 
carriage  stopped  at  the  steps  of  a  broad  piazza. 

The  sound  of  approaching  wheels  aroused  Floyd 
Southwold,  Senior,  and  he  came  out  into  the  wide  low 
hall  to  meet  his  nephew.  He  was  a  man  of  some  sixty 
years,  but  hale  and  erect,  with  abundant  iron  grey  hair. 


Southwold.  53 

His  broad  white  forehead  and  heavy  brow  shaded  a  pair 
of  piercing  black  eyes,  which  attracted  you  irresistibly 
from  their  look  of  clear,  deep  thought,  even  while  you 
were  unconsciously  repelled  by  the  hard  cold  lines  about 
the  mouth,  that  impressed  you  with  the  idea  of  much 
sternness,  and  perhaps  egotism  of  character.  He  had 
always  been  a  strikingly  handsome  man,  and  could,  at 
pleasure,  be  very  fascinating  ;  yet  it  had  been  once  said 
of  him  by  a  shrewd  woman  of  the  world,  that  the  rea- 
son why  Mr.  Southwold  had  never  married  was,  because 
he  was  so  conscious  of  his  own  beauty,  and  so  occupied 
with  the  admiration  it  deserved  to  receive,  that  he  had 
no  time  to  pay  that  absorbed  devotion  to  the  charms  of 
the  fair  sex,  without  which  their  favor  is  rarely  won. 

Such  was  the  tall  and  stately  man  who  now  advanced 
with  outstretched  hand  to  meet  Floyd,  welcoming  him 
with  great  cordiality,  and  conducting  him  at  once  to  the 
supper  spread  in  the  dining-room.  This  was  a  fine  large 
apartment,  heavily  wainscoted  in  oak,  and  furnished 
with  crimson  velvet,  mounted  to  correspond.  A  wood 
fire  burned  on  the  hearth ;  though  the  windows  were 
open  it  was  very  comfortable,  as  the  night  was  cool,  and 
the  red  glow  of  the  flames  gave  added  cheefulness  to 
the  room,  already  well  lighted  by  a  suspended  bronze 
lamp.  The  sideboard  and  table  displayed  much  elegant 
old-fashioned  plate  and  antique  cut  glass;  altogether 
there  was  an  air  of  luxury  and  neatness  that  Floyd  had 
scarcely  expected  to  see  in  a  bachelor  establishment. 

With  the  keen  appetite  of  a  traveller  he  did  ample 
justice  to  the  well-supplied  board,  his  wants  being  at- 
tended to  by  Christian,  a  grey-haired  mulatto  waiter, 
who  had  been  for  years  in  the  service  of  the  family.  His 


54  Southwold. 

natural  solemnity  of  look  was  increased  by  an  imposing 
pair  of  silver-mounted  spectacles,  and  he  went  through 
his  duties  with  a  stately  pomposity  wonderful  to  behold. 

The  meal  over,  Mr.  Southwold  pushed  open  a  door, 
which  had  stood  ajar,  and  ushered  Floyd  into  the 
library.  This  was  a  delightful  room,  entirely  lined  with 
black-walnut  book-cases,  except  on  one  side,  where  a 
handsome  wood  fire  was  burning,  and  at  the  end,  where 
a  huge  bay-window  lighted  it  abundantly,  and  formed 
the  nicest  place  in  the  world  for  reading.  The  shelves 
contained  a  splendid  collection  of  books,  the  greater 
portion  of  which  had  been  obtained  by  the  present 
owner's  grandfather,  while  on  a  visit  to  England,  though 
all  the  best  modern  works  had  since  been  added. 
There  were  any  quantity  of  delightfully  comfortable 
chairs,  of  all  varieties  of  shape,  and  several  study 
tables,  on  one  of  which  stood  a  shaded  lamp. 

"  This  is  rather  my  favorite  room,"  said  Mr.  South- 
wold, seating  himself,  "that  is,  when  I  have  no  lady 
company ;  they  generally  prefer  the  parlor  and  boudoir.'' 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  your  choice,"  rejoined  Floyd, 
his  eyes  sparkling  with  anticipated  delight  as  they  fell 
on  the  rich  stores  around  him. 

MR.  SOUTHWOLD. — "  To  a  solitary  bachelor,  like  my- 
self, there  is  no  companionship  so  reliable  as  that  of 
books.  I  am  less  alone  when  surrounded  by  these  fa- 
miliar faces." 

FLOYD. — "  I  am  sure  it  would  be  difficult  to  feel  either 
unhappy  or  solitary  here." 

MR.  S. — "  You  think  so  ?  Perhaps  even  this  spell, 
potent  as  it  is,  might  not  always  be  sufficient  to  charm 
away  some  harassing  thought." 


Southwold.  55 

F.  with  a  sudden  vision  of  the  blue-eyed  angel  of  the 
morning. — "Perhaps  not.  I  can  imagine  that  a  day- 
dream might  sometimes  mar  even  the  flowing  verse  of 
Terence  or  Ovid,  and  steal  across  the  most  sublime  pas- 
sages of  Lysias  or  Demosthenes." 

MR.  S. — "  I  see  you  have  not  lost  your  college  taste 
for  the  classics." 

F. — "  By  no  means ;  it  seems  to  me  that  I  shall  al- 
ways love  better  the  resounding  lines  of  Horace  and 
Virgil  than  the  fairest  verses  of  Dante  and  Tasso.  I 
prefer  infinitely  the  Medea  of  Euripides  to  the  Andro- 
maque  of  Racine." 

MR.  S. — "  You  are  eloquent,  sir  ;•  but  I  do  not  won- 
der at  your  warmth,  for  I  myself,  to  this  day,  have  the 
same  admiration  for  the  ore  rotundo  of  the  ancients.  I 
have  a  very  good  collection  of  them,  I  think  ;  most  of 
them  Elzevirs  and  Wolfgangs.  You  may  find  some 
works  among  them  that  you  have  not  hitherto  seen." 

F. — "  I  should  like  to  examine  them  vastly,  though, 
after  all,  the  text-books  of  the  schoolboy  are  the  purest 
and  most  elegant  classics." 

MR.  S. — "  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  for,  like 
the  courtly  premier  of  George  II.,  I  have  no  patience 
with  that  pedantry  which  affects  an  admiration  for  the 
obscure  writers  of  antiquity." 

F.  rising  and  approaching  the  book-shelves. — "  I  have 
so  often  longed  to  have  unlimited  leisure  and  access  to 
such  a  library,  and  never  before  enjoyed  the  opportu- 
nity." 

MR.  S. — "  Not  now,  Floyd,  it  is  too  late.  I  know 
you  must  be  fatigued,  you  will  have  ample  time  here- 
after." 


56  Southwold. 

F.  glancing  at  the  clock. — "  I  see  it  is  near  midnight ; 
I  had  no  idea  of  the  hour." 

MB.  S. — "  Yes,  you  had  better  ring  for  your  candle." 
To  the  servant,  entering  :  "  Christian,  show  Mr.  South- 
wold  to  his  room."  To  Floyd :  "  We  breakfast  at  nine, 
and  now  good-night." 

The  following  morning,  long  before  that  hour,  Floyd 
was  down  stairs,  and  availed  himself  of  the  spare  mo- 
ments to  see  something  of  Southwold.  It  had  been  ori- 
ginally a  low,  square  house,  built  of  Dutch  brick,  with 
a  deep  sloping  roof,  making  dormer  windows  in  all  the 
second  story  rooms.  In  the  older  part,  on  the  ground 
floor,  there  was  a  wide  hall  running  through  from  front 
to  rear.  This  was  panelled  in  old  oak,  ornamented  with 
several  deer's  horns,  and  a  set  of  choice  hunting  scenes. 
On  either  hand  had  formerly  been  two  large  apartments. 
Those  we  saw  last  night,  dining-room  and  library,  re- 
mained unchanged  ;  on  the  other  side  only  one,  that  at 
the  back  retained  its  first  design,  this  was  a  parlor,  hand- 
somely furnished  in  blue,  and  containing  several  choice 
pictures.  The  front  room  formed  a  wide  hah1,  thrown 
into  one  with  the  main  entry  by  means  of  an  arch,  and 
panelled  to  correspond.  It  was  the  communication  with 
the  wing  which  the  father  of  the  present  owner  had 
built,  and  which  was  rather  larger  than  the  original 
house,  being  two  stories  and  a  half  high,  and  broader 
by  the  width  of  the  piazza  running  across  the  front 
of  the  older  part.  It  contained  four  fine  chambers  on 
the  second  floor,  and  down  stairs  the  private  suite  of 
Mr.  Southwold,  and  an  immense  drawing-room,  some 
forty  feet  long,  full  of  elegant  furniture,  superb  mirrors, 
and  beautiful  paintings.  There  was  also  a  small  bou- 


Southwold.  57 

doir,  glowing  in  delicate  rose-colored  walls,  sofas,  and 
curtains.  The  wide  hall,  already  described,  formed  a 
fine  gallery,  in  which  were  hung  the  family  portraits  for 
the  last  five  generations,  ending  with  a  very  excellent 
one  of  the  present  proprietor,  taken  early  in  life. 

Of  course,  Floyd  did  not  see  all  this  at  that  time ; 
but  after  a  casual  glance  at  the  great  drawing-room 
and  the  pictures  of  his  ancestors,  he  went  to  the  front 
door.  It  opened  on  a  piazza  quite  overgrown  with  roses 
and  honeysuckles,  now  in  full  bloom,  fairly  loading  the 
air  with  fragrance.  The  view  from  that  point  was  not 
very  extended,  only  the  wide  lawn,  dotted  with  patches 
of  flowers  and  fringed  with  fine  trees,  principally  oak  ; 
the  drive  sweeping  around  it ;  and  on  one  side  a  glimpse 
of  the  gardens,  and  the  glitter  of  the  sunlight  on  the 
glass  of  the  green-houses  and  grapery. 

Remembering  that  the  Hudson  lay  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  Floyd  descended  the  steps  and  walked  slowly  in 
that  direction.  As  he  advanced  new  beauties  burst 
upon  him  ;  at  first  the  "  Storm  King  "  rising* majestically 
on  the  opposite  shore,  and  farther  on,  looking  down  the 
vistas  which  had  been  cut  through  the  trees,  there  was 
the  river  itself  sparkling  and  dancing  in  the  bright 
morning  sun,  here  and  there  dotted  with  a  white  sail. 
Beyond  that,  again,  the  soft  slope  of  the  other  bank, 
with  its  many  beautiful  houses  rising  above  the  delicate 
green  of  the  surrounding  foliage. 

He  walked  a  short  distance  down  a  path  which  led 
towards  the  water,  but  recollecting  himself  and  glancing 
at  his  watch,  he  saw  that  it  was  but  a  few  minutes  before 
nine  and  retraced  his  steps.  On  turning,  he  had  a  very 
good  view  of  the  house.  There  was  another  wide  piazza 


jg  Southwold. 

arross  the  whole  length  to  the  bay-window ;  and  from 
the  irregularity  of  the  building,  the  grey  color  of  the  old 
brick,  and  the  vines  which  overran  it  in  glorious  luxuri- 
ance, there  was  something  pleasingly  picturesque  in  its 
appearance. 

Floyd  met  his  uncle  in  the  hall,  and  they  proceeded  to 
breakfast  together. 

"Have  you  been  down  to  the  river?"  asked  Mr. 
Southwold. 

"  No,  I  started,  but  found  I  had  not  time." 

"  Then  you  did  not  see  how  that  abominable  railroad 
has  cut  up  my  shore ;  but  I  have  endeavored  to  counter- 
act the  defect  as  far  as  possible,  by  setting  out  bushes 
and  vines  along  the  sides.  I  am  not  so  badly  off  as  my 
neighbors,  however,  as  I  have  but  one  deep  cut,  although 
that  is  very  deep.  I  have  almost  concealed  it  by  a  skil- 
fully placed  screen." 

"  But  do  you  not  find  the  cars  a  great  convenience  ?" 

"I  presume  they  are  to  those  gentlemen  who  are 
obliged  to  go  to  town  every  day,  but  as  I  rarely  travel 
in  them,  even  now,  they  are  only  a  misfortune  to 
me." 

The  breakfast  over,  Floyd  went  at  once  to  the  library, 
and  was  deep  in  the  examination  of  some  quaint  old 
authors  when  his  uncle  summoned  him  for  a  ride. 
Going  out  on  the  piazza  as  soon  as  he  was  equipped,  he 
found  the  two  saddle  horses  in  readiness.  Mr.  South- 
wold had  jusf  mounted,  and  sat  stately  and  erect  with 
easy  enjoyment,  curbing  the  impatience  of  the  fiery 
animal  he  bestrode.  A  delicately  shaped  sorrel  mare 
was  awaiting  Floyd,  who  hastened  to  spring  into  the 
saddle  and  join  his  uncle. 


Southwold.  59 

"Are  you  a  good  horseman?"  he  inquired  as  they 
trotted  down  the  avenue. 

"I  am  not  much  accustomed  to  riding,"  replied 
Floyd ;  "  you  know  I  have  no  great  opportunity  for  it 
at  home,  but  I  can  appreciate  a  fine  animal  when  I  see 
it." 

"  You  will  soon  become  acquainted  with  these  ;  they 
are  both  very  amiable,  though  '  Presto '  has  such  a  fiery 
eye." 

"  Presto  ?  that  is  your  mount,  I  presume." 

"  Yes,  I  call  him  so  because  he  is  indeed  swift.  To  tell 
the  truth  I  am  rather  proud  of  him.  You  notice  his  white 
feet  and  nose  ?  He  is  one  of  old  '  Boston's  sons,'  and 
though  only  half-bred  possesses  most  of  the  characteristics 
of  the  sire.  He  will  sulk  sometimes,  but  I  have  ridden 
him  so  long  that  we  understand  each  other  pretty  well." 

"  He  is  a  beautiful  creature,  but  I  admire  this  little 
mare  very  much." 

"Yes,  she  is  fashionably  thorough-bred.  I  call  her 
Danae,  because  she  looks  as  if  a  shower  of  gold  might 
have  descended  upon  her,  and  left  its  hue  on  her  shining 
coat." 

Both  gentlemen  enjoyed  the  ri$e  keenly;  it  was  a 
beautiful  morning,  almost  the  very  last  day  of  May,  but 
still  cool  enough  to  render  exercise  agreeable.  The  air 
was  clear  and  pure  as  a  draught  from  an  Elysian  foun- 
tain, and  the  sunlight  poured  its  flood  of  liquid  gold 
over  fields  and  woods  and  the  tranquil  river. 

Oh !  magnificent  sunshine  of  America !  how  far  supe- 
rior to  the  vaunted  glories  of  Italy  and  the  Havana ! 
On  one  of  our  bright  October  days,  when  the  trees  are 
dyed  with  the  myriad  hues  of  all  the  rubies  and  jaspers 


60  Southwold. 

of  the  Orient,  or  on  a  morning  like  this  when  nature  is 
smiling  in  the  delicate  robe  of  early  summer,  how  exqui- 
site the  radiance  of  the  dancing  sunbeams.  But  it  is, 
perhaps,  in  this  attribute  of  lustrous  purity  that  our 
sunlight  excels  that  of  all  other  countries.  For  there 
is  a  crimson  glow  that  lingers  through  the  brightest 
of  Italian  days,  and  the  ocean  that  watches  around  the 
Queen  of  the  Antilles  obscures  her  clearest  mornings 
with  the  misty  breath  of  his  everlasting  homage,  whose 
chorus  dies  in  the  resounding  chimes  of  the  waves  at  her 
feet.  But  here  the  gorgeous  sun  pours  down  the  intensest 
lustre  of  his  dazzling  beams,  as  if  this  alone  were  the 
land  of  his  beloved  Leucothoe. 

As  they  galloped  on,  Floyd  was  surprised  to  find  that 
his  uncle  knew  nearly  every  one  they  met ;  and  more 
than  once  he  reined  up  beside  a  carriage-load  of  young 
people,  exchanging  a  smile  and  a  joke  with  all,  so 
that  before  they  had  ridden  many  miles  his  nephew 
had  quite  an  extensive  acquaintance.  Coming  out  on  a 
point  commanding  a  fine  view,  Mr.  Southwold  said : 

"  That  very  beautiful  house,  literally  a  cottage  omee, 
is  Mr.  Le  Roy  Clarkson's  place — 'Lazy -Bank,'  as  his 
gay  wife  calls  it.  The  family  have  not  left  the  city  yet, 
but  they  will  be  here  shortly.  This,  on  our  right,  is 
'Ash  Grove,'  Mr.  Ashley's  seat.  We  will  go  in  and 
lunch  there.  I  can  always  reckon  on  a  cordial  reception. 
I  dare  say  you  will  not  object." 

"  I  confess,"  replied  Floyd,  "  the  ride  has  given  me  a 
splendid  appetite." 

Mr.  Southwold  had  made  no  false  calculation.  Both 
uncle  and  nephew  were  warmly  welcomed  by  Mr.  Ash- 
ley and  his  two  charming  daughters.  So  much  did  they 


South  wold.  61 

enjoy  their  visit  that  they  lingered  so  long  that  when 
they  reached  home  it  was  very  near  Mr.  Southwold's 
invariable  dinner  hour  of  four  o'clock. 

When  Floyd  entered  the  parlor,  after  changing  his 
dress,  he  found  his  uncle  conversing  with  two  gentlemen 
who  had  stopped  half  way  on  a  long  drive  to  some 
inland  farms,  relying  upon  the  well  known  hospitality 
of  Southwold  for  their  dinner.  The  meal  passed  off 
very  pleasantly,  as  Messrs.  Grey  and  Verplanck  were 
both  agreeable  men,  although  it  was  rendered  some- 
what funny  by  Mr.  Southwold's  ineffectual  endeavors  to 
hurry  its  progress,  in  order  that  his  guests  might  reach 
their  homes  before  dark.  All  his  efforts  were  made 
abortive  by  the  fixed  ideas  of  propriety  held  by 
Christian.  In  vain  did  his  master  say  to  him  when  he 
was  laboriously  performing  some  of  the  table  solemni- 
ties not  absolutely  necessary  to  comfort  : 

"  Never  mind  that,  Christian,  try  to  make  haste." 

Christian  regarded  him  with  a  look  of  mild  reproof, 
and  went  on  with  the  regular  routine  of  his  duties 
unmoved  by  this  and  all  similar  appeals,  until  they  were 
relinquished  in  despair.  When  the  wine  was  at  last 
placed  on  the  table  and  the  servants  withdrawn,  Mr. 
Southwold  said  apologetically : 

"  Christian  is  a  most  excellent  butler,  but  he  does  not 
like  to  have  his  arrangements  interfered  with,  although 
they  are  sometimes  rather  peculiar.  I  recollect  on  one 
occasion  several  gentlemen  arrived  quite  unexpectedly 
to  dine.  When  seated  at  table,  the  meal  presented  an 
imposing  appearance,  but  I  observed  that  he  failed  to 
remove  the  cover  from  one  of  the  four  centre  dishes.  In 
vain  I  endeavored,  by  nods  and  looks,  to  inform  him  of 


62  Southwold. 

his  omission,  and  at  last  I  was  obliged  to  take  advantage 
of  a  general  laugh  to  whisper  as  he  passed : 

" 4  Why  do  you  not  uncover  that  dish,  Christian  ?' 

"  With  admirable  presence  of  mind  he  seized  a  cham- 
pagne bottle,  and  said  as  he  bent  down  to  fill  my  glass : 

" 4  Uniformity,  sir,  uniformity.' 

"  Of  course  I  said  no  more,  but  sat  in  dread  lest  some 
one  else  might  incautiously  make  manifest  its  empti- 
ness." 

During  the  laugh  which  followed  this  story,  the  gen- 
tlemen rose  to  go.  As  soon  as  uncle  and  nephew  were 
alone,  Mr.  Southwold  said : 

"  I  was  somewhat  surprised  to  see  Grey,  he  has  not 
been  here  much  of  late." 

"  He  seems  a  very  pleasant  man,"  replied  Floyd. 

"  In  some  respects  he  is,  but  the  most  pertinacious 
individual  I  ever  met ;  he  wanted  me  to  sell  him  a  piece 
of  land  for  his  widowed  sister,  as  he  could  get  no  other 
near  him,  and  bored  me  terribly  about  it,  but  I  would 
not  be  the  first  to  alienate  my  ancestral  acres.  I  hope 
my  successors  will  have  the  same  feeling ;"  then  after  a 
moment's  pause  he  continued,  "there  are  two  things 
which  I  wish  we  had  in  this  country — the  right  of  entail 
and  Game  Laws." 

"  They  are  rather  anti-republican,"  replied  Floyd. 

"  So  they  are ;  but  I  feel  an  irrepressible  sadness 
when  I  think  that  fifty  years  hence  there  may  not  be 
one  acre  of  this  fine  property  in  our  family,  and  it  fairly 
makes  my  blood  boil  to  see  these  wretched  boors  shoot- 
ing even  all  the  rabbits  and  squirrels  off  my  land.  Why, 
I  can  remember  when  there  was  very  fair  sport  about 
here,  and  now  we  are  obliged  to  go  into  the  mountains 


Southwold.  63 

to  get  a  shot  at  anything ;  even  then  it  does  not  amount 
to  much." 

"  But,"  suggested  Floyd,  "  do  you  not  think  that  this 
scarcity  of  game  depends  less  upon  the  absence  of  laws 
to  protect  it  than  upon  the  extreme  severity  of  our 
winters  ?  I  fancy  there  never  was  what  could  be  called 
first-rate  sport  about  here." 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  your  argument,  although  undoubt- 
edly to  a  certain  degree  correct  with  regard  to  this  por- 
tion of  our  country,  does  not  apply  to  regions  further  to 
the  southward,  and  is  only  an  added  reason  for  guarding 
what  game  we  have.  I  live  in  daily  expectation  of  some 
change  in  our  mismanaged  government,  and  hope  that 
it  will  effect  this,  with  various  other  desirable  results ; 
to  tell  the  truth,  I  do  not  believe  this  Republic  will  last 
out  even  my  time." 

"Why  not?"  exclaimed  Floyd,  astonished;  "pray, 
let  me  hear  the  premises  from  which  you  deduce  this 
ponclusion." 

"  Simply,  they  are  these — when  our  population  becomes 
dense,  the  poorer  classes  must  necessarily  outnumber 
the  people  of  the  middle  and  higher  ranks;- then  the 
overwhelming  vote,  which  under  our  present  constitu- 
tion and  laws  they  will  have,  will  give  them  the  com- 
plete control  of  government,  and  they  will,  of  course, 
legislate  for  their  own  advantage.  This  will  render  it 
absolutely  necessary  for  the  property  of  the  country, 
for  its  own  preservation,  to  usurp  power,  even  at  the 
risk  of  a  revolution." 

"  Undoubtedly  there  is  some  justice  in  what  you  say. 
When  such  a  state  of  affairs  does  occur,  it  must  be  pro- 
ductive of  disasters ;  but,"  urged  Floyd,  "  when  you 


64  Southwold. 

contemplate  this  vast  expanse  of  territory,  and  its  infi- 
nite resources  for  supporting  population,  it  postpones 
to  an  indefinitely  remote  period  such  a  catastrophe." 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all ;  our  country  must  be  occupied 
in  detail,  and  always  from  great  centres;  we  already  see 
the  causes  I  have  mentioned  in  operation,  in  all  our  large 
towns,  especially  in  our  great  metropolis,  the  worst 
governed  and  worst  taxed  city  in  the  world." 

"  True,"  said  Floyd ;  "  I  presume  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  whole  of  its  vast  expenditure  goes  to  support 
in  office  a  set  of  incompetent  persons." 

"Incompetent  persons!"  cried  Mr.  Southwold,  ex- 
citedly ;  "  incompetent  persons,  rascally  vagabonds  you 
mean.  No,  no,  my  dear  fellow,  this  idea  of  Democracy 
and  Republicanism  is  Utopian.  The  only  possible  hope 
of  success  under  such  institutions  is  in  the  immaculate 
virtue  of  the  governed,  who  are  also  the  governors ; 
whereas,  the  very  necessity  for  laws  proves  the  fallacy 
of  that  dependence." 

"  But,  the  rights  of  man — " 

"  Absurd !"  interrupted  Mr.  Southwold,  rising ;  then 
with  a  smile  he  added,  "  Excuse  me,  I  am  too  warm,  let 
us  close  this  useless  discussion.  I  lose  all  patience  when 
I  think  of  this  subject ;  after  all,  I  fear  I  shall  not  live  to 
see  the  end." 

With  a  sigh  he  turned  to  other  themes  of  less  exciting 
interest. 

This  day  was  a  fair  sample  of  those  that  followed, 
driving,  riding  and  walking  occupying  the  mornings, 
the  evenings  closing  with  a  dinner  party  either  at  home 
or  at  some  friend's  house.  Mr.  Southwold  was  noted  for 
his  hospitality,  so  that  he  was  rarely  alone,  guests  either 


Southwold.  65 

invited   or  unexpected   constantly  arriving  to  take   a 
single  meal  or  to  remain  a  few  days. 

Floyd  and  his  uncle  were  congenial  in  their  tastes  in 
many  respects ;  and  although  Mr.  Southwold's  natural 
egotism  had  been  fostered  by  a  long  life  of  bachelor 
self-indulgence  until  it  had  assumed  proportions  almost 
colossal,  yet  as  his  nephew  was  a  most  unselfish  and 
amiable  person,  it  was  rarely  that  this  want  of  thought 
touched  him.  Thus  the  days  flew  by,  and  Floyd  keenly 
enjoyed  this  idle  existence  of  ease  and  amusement. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  DIOGEXE. — '  Est-ce  que  vous  avez  envie  de  donner  le  bal  ?' 

PLUTON. — '  Pourquoi  le  bal  ?' 

DIOGENE. — '  Ces  qu'ils  sont  en  fort  bon  equipage  pour  danser.     Us 
sont  jolis,  ma  foi,  je  n'ai  jamais  rien  vu  de  sidameret  ni  de  sigalant.' " 
Les  Heros  de  Roman. — BOILEAU. 


-  semula  lumina  stellis 


Lumina  qua?  posseut  solicitatse  Dios." 

ONE  morning  when  Floyd  had  been  at  South  wold  about 
a  fortnight,  he  was  seated  reading  on  the  front  piazza, 
where  he  was  completely  concealed  by  the  thick  vines, 
when  he  heard  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  coming  up  the 
drive.  This  did  not,  however,  attract  his  attention  from 
his  book,  until  he  heard  the  clear  ringing  tones  of  a  lady's 
voice : 

"  Is  Mr.  Southwold  at  home  ?" 

He  started  up,  and  looking  through  the  leaves  saw  a 
very  handsome  woman,  mounted  on  a  fine  horse,  and 
attended  only  by  a  groom.  Her  black  habit  fitted  per- 
fectly, and  displayed,  to  great  advantage,  her  full  bust 
and  taper  waist.  The  exercise  had  brought  a  bright 
color  in  the  clear  olive  of  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  health  and  animation.  Of  course  a  sum- 
mons from  so  fair  a  visitor  could  not  be  disregarded, 


Southwold.  67 

and  Floyd  hastened  down  the  steps  just  as  a  servant,  to 
whom  the  inquiry  had  been  addressed,  answered : 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  he  is  on  the  piazza." 

Floyd  advanced  with  a  low  bow. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  the  lady,  looking  at  him,  "but 
I  asked  for  Mr.  Southwold." 

"  I  am  Mr.  Southwold,  Madam,"  with  another  bow. 

"  I  mean  Mr.  Floyd  Southwold." 

"  But  that  is  my  name,  madam." 

The  pretty  brunette  here  burst  into  a  merry  laugh, 
and  said :  "  Then  you  have  dropped  at  least  thirty  years 
since  I  last  saw  you,  but  with  your  age  you  seem  also  to 
have  lost  your  gallantry,  or  you  would  have  asked  me  to 
dismount." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  replied  Floyd,  "  allow  me  to  as- 
sist you." 

"  No,  no !"  said  the  lady,  catching  a  glimpse  of  Mr. 
Southwold,  who  that  moment  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
"  there  is  your  older  and  more  polite  namesake,  he  shall 
have  the  honor." 

"  Why !  Mrs.  Clarkson,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Southwold, 
as  soon  as  he  saw  the  fair  horsewoman,  "  how  do  you 
do,  and  when  did  you  come  ?" 

"I  am  very  well,"  replied  the  lady,  "and  if  you 
mean  when  did  I  come  on  to  the  river,  we  arrived  last 
night,  and  have  no  one  with  us,  so  that,  as  Le  Roy  was 
too  lazy  to  ride,  I  was  obliged  to  set  forth  alone,  but  if 
you  mean  when  did  I  come  here,  about  five  minutes  ago, 
during  which  time  this  ungallant  young  man,  who  says 
his  name  is  Floyd  Southwold,  has  never  asked  me  to 
enter  the  house." 

"  He  told  the  truth,  madam,  though  I  am  sorry  he 


68  Southwold. 

disgraced  the  name  by  such  a  want  of  courtesy.  It  is 
my  nephew,  Floyd  Southwold,  junior, — Mrs.  Le  Roy 
Clarkson." 

Floyd  bowed  as  he  said,  "  I  awaited  my  uncle's  per- 
mission, madam,  to  ask  you  to  alight,  as  without  that  I 
should  never  have  dared  to  invite  so  fair  an  enchantress 
to  enter  a  hitherto  impregnable  castle  of  bachelors. 
Have  we  not  all  heard  of  the  magic  of  black  eyes !" 

"  I  forgive  you,"  said  Mrs.  Clarkson,  laughingly  ex- 
tending her  hand,  "  and  you  may  help  me  down." 

She  sprang  lightly  to  the  ground.  The  groom  led 
away  the  horses,  and  the  lady  walked  into  the  hall  with 
her  two  attendants. 

"Where  will  you  sit,  madam?"  asked  Mr.  South- 
wold, "  you  know  the  whole  house  is  at  your  service. 
Shall  we  go  into  the  boudoir  ?" 

"  The  boudoir  in  a  riding-dress  and  with  two  men ! — 
Terrible  idea!  when  that  should  be  sacred  to  white 
muslin,  and  ttte-d-ttte.  Xo!  I  prefer  the  library  this 
morning." 

Before  they  had  been  long  seated,  or  Mrs.  Clarkson 
had  half  done  unfolding  her  budget  of  city  gossip, 
lunch  was  prepared  and  they  were  summoned  to  the 
dining-room.  When  the  solids  were  dispatched,  and 
they  gave  their  attention  to  the  fruit,  Mr.  Southwold 
turned  to  Mrs.  Clarkson,  and  said — 

"  Shall  it  be  Maraschino  to-day  with  your  strawber- 
ries?" 

"  No,  I  think  I  will  take  Parfait  Amour, — I  always 
prefer  that  when  there  are  any  handsome  men  present." 

Both  gentlemen  bowed  and  drank  her  health  enthusi- 
astically. 


Southwold.  69 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Southwold,  "  let  us  have  some  more 
town  news." 

"  I  believe  I  have  told  you  all  except — let  me  see ! 
Oh !  there  was  Lucy  Wentworth's  wedding." 

Floyd  becoming  suddenly  interested,  "  Miss  Went- 
worth,  did  you  say  ?  How  long  ago  was  that  ?" 

MRS.  CLARKSON. — "  About  a  month,  I  should  think. 
Their  honeymoon  must  be  just  about  over.  Why?  Did 
you  know  her  ?  " 

FLOYD. — "  No,  but  I  saw  her  married.  I  happened  to 
be  passing  the  church  just  as  the  bride  arrived,  and  so 
went  in." 

MRS.  C. — "  You  don't  say  so  !  Did  you  think  her 
pretty  ?" 

F. — "  No  !     But  very  sweet  and  lovely." 

MR.  SOUTHWOLD. — "  Her  father  is  very  wealthy,  is  he 
not  ?" 

MRS.  C. — "  Yes,  half  a  million  they  say,  and  she  is  his 
only  child.  That  was  the  attraction,  I  fear — such  a  queer 
hurried  up  affair.  Why,  they  were  only  engaged  two 
months.  They  do  say,  though,  that  Lascelles  was  so  in 
debt  they  had  to  be  married." 

MR.  S. — "  What  did  you  say  the  young  man's  name 
was?" 

MRS.  C.— "  Lascelles." 

MR.  S.  musingly,  — "  Lascelles  !  I  never  heard  it 
before.  He  cannot  be  a  person  of  any  condition." 

MRS.  C. — "  Dear  me,  no !  Some  nobody  from  New  Eng- 
land, but  she  was  terribly  in  love  with  him,  and  her  father 
was  so  fond  of-  her  that  he  could  refuse  her  nothing ;  so 
he  let  her  marry  this  young  man,  who  positively  had 
nothing  in  his  favor  except  a  pretty  complexion." 


jo  Southwold. 

MR.  S. — "  A  most  excellent  recommendation  for  a 
husband  truly ! " 

MRS.  C. — "  He  had  no  other,  I  assure  you.  The  whole 
affair  was  wretchedly  managed.  They  sailed  for  Europe 
the  very  afternoon  of  the  wedding-day — that,  I  think  a 
grand  mistake !  The  idea  of  mal  du  mer  in  the  honey- 
moon ! " 

MR.  S. — "  Shocking  indeed !    Anything  more  ?" 

MRS.  C. — "  Nothing,  but  that  they  were  married  in 
May." 

MR.  S. — "  And  pray  what  of  that  ?" 

MRS.  C. — "  Why  you  know  they  say  of  a  couple 
married  in  May,  one  always  dies  young." 

F. — who  had  been  eagerly  watching  for  a  pause  to 
make  an  inquiry,  now  asked,  "  Were  you  present  at  the 
ceremony  ?" 

MRS.  C.— "Yes!" 

F. — "Then  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  the  name  of  a  young 
lady  whom  I  saw  there ;  she  was  very  handsome,  with 
light  hair  and  the  most  beautiful  blue  eyes  in  the  world." 

MRS.  C. — "  Of  course  I  can,  there  is  only  one  woman 
in  New  York  whom  you  can  mean,  and  that  is  Medora 
Fielding.  So  she  victimized  you  even  in  those  few 
moments." 

F.  blushing  crimson, — "I  certainly  admired  her 
appearance  very  much." 

MR.  S. — "  By  the  way,  Mrs.  Clarkson,  I  have  never 
seen  that  friend  of  yours,  Miss  Fielding !" 

MRS.  C. — "Well!  you  will  soon,  for  she  is  coming 
here  in  about  a  month  to  make  a  nice  long  visit." 

MR.  S.— "  Is  she  ?  Well,  if  she  is  really  as  handsome 
as  you  say,  I  shall  give  her  a  party." 


South  wold.  71 

MRS.  C. — "  Oh !  how  splendid !  Mr.  Southwold,  you 
are  always  charming."  Then  rising,  "Mr.  Floyd,  will 
you  ring  for  my  horse." 

MR.  S. — "  Don't  be  so  cruel  as  to  leave  us." 

MRS.  C. — "I  really  must  go.  It  is  shockingly  late, 
and  Le  Roy  will  be  anxious." 

MR.  S. — "  Well,  if  you  insist ;  but  you  will  not  be  rid 
of  us  so  easily  after  all,  for  we  will  accompany  you — that 
is,  with  your  permission." 

MRS.  C. — "  With  all  my  heart." 

They  had  a  delightful  ride  ;  but  though  Mrs.  Clarkson 
was  as  pleasant  as  ever,  Floyd  heard  very  little  of  what 
she  said.  This  mention  of  that  beautiful  woman  had 
revived  the  recollection  of  her  loveliness  in  all  its  first 
freshness,  and  he  longed  for  the  time  to  arrive  when  he 
should  see  her  again. 

Yet  the  month  rolled  swiftly  away,  and  August  came, 
with  its  ardent  sun  and  gorgeous  flowers. 

No  one  hailed  its  advent  with  more  delight  than  Me- 
dora  Fielding.  She  and  her  mother  had  been  spend- 
ing the  summer  at  Seachester,  a  petty  watering-place, 
where  there  was  no  one  upon  whom  to  exercise  her  fas- 
cinations, except  some  very  young  men,  not  one  of  whom 
was  eligible  as  a  parti.  These  poor  victims  had,  to  be 
sure,  been  reduced  to  a  state  bordering  upon  distraction, 
and  generally  rendered  wretched,  and  set  by  the  ears, 
merely  that  their  society  might  while  away  tedious 
hours,  and  their  humble  homage  afford  relief  from  ha- 
rassing thought,  and  for  the  gratification  of  that  spirit 
of  coquetry  which  was  fast  becoming  a  necessity  of  her  ex- 
istence. Still  she  felt  that  the  moments  had  been  wasted 
so  far  as  the  present  object — the  securing  a  wealthy  and 


72 


South  wold. 


brilliant  alliance — was  concerned.  When,  therefore, 
the  time  arrived  for  her  to  visit  Lazy-Bank,  she  was 
rejoiced  to  leave  the  scene  of  her  recent  worthless  tri- 
umphs. 

The  two  friends  met  rapturously ;  Mr.  Clarkson  join- 
ing in  the  boisterous  greetings  of  his  delighted  wife. 
Kind  as  he  was,  however,  the  ladies  longed  for  a  ttte-d- 
tete,  and  made  a  pretence  of  retiring  early,  in  order  that 
they  might,  unconstrained,  have  a  feminine  interchange 
of  gossip.  Fancy  them,  then,  in  slippers  and  robes  de 
chambre,  cozily  seated  in  Medora's  dressing  room. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clarkson,  for  the 
twentieth  time,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come." 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  happy  I  am  to  be  here," 
answered  Medora  ;  "  I  so  longed  to  see  you,  and  then  I 
was  terribly  bored  at  Seachester." 

"  Why,  didn't  you  have  a  nice  time  there  ?  I  heard 
you  were  a  great  belle." 

"  Comme  fa  f  but  in  the  words  of  the  unfortunate 
Robinson  Crusoe — 

"  '  Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms 
Than  reign  in  that  horrible  place.' " 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Clarkson,  laughingly,  "  I  hope  you 
will  enjoy  yourself  here.  You  have  made  one  conquest 
already." 

"  How  so  ?  Why,  I  have  seen  no  one  but  Mr.  Clark- 
son  since  I  came,  and  I  discovered  long  ago  that  his 
heart  is  impregnable." 

"  Yes !  Le  Roy  is  hopeless,  I  believe.  But  this  vic- 
tim you  have  never  seen,  though  he  saw  you  some  two 
months  ago,  and  has  raved  about  you  ever  since." 


Southwold.  73 

"  How  romantic  !     Pray  who  is  it  ?" 

"  It  is  Floyd  Southwold." 

"  Nonsense,  ma  ch&re  !  Why,  he  is  as  venerable  as 
time." 

"  Oh !  I  don't  mean  the  old  gentleman,  but  his 
nephew,  namesake,  and  adopted  heir." 

Medora  was  roused  into  sudden  interest  by  the  last 
words.  "That  is  quite  another  matter.  Is  he  hand- 
some ?" 

"  Yes,  very !  the  loveliest  grey  eyes  imaginable ;  and 
I  presume  when  his  uncle  dies  he  will  have  an  estate 
worth  nearly  a  million." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !     Why,  I  quite  long  to  see  him." 

"  'Tis  true,  mon  amie.  You  shall  see  him  to-morrow. 
I  will  write  a  note  in  the  morning,  and  ask  him  and  his 
uncle  to  dine  here." 

The  consequence  of  this  conversation  was,  the  fol-" 
lowing  evening  found  Mr.  Southwold  and  Floyd  driv- 
ing towards  Mr.  LeRoy  Clarkson's  place.  It  had 
been  one  of  those  sultry  midsummer  days,  when  all 
nature  lies  tranquil,  with  hushed  breath,  beneath  the 
fiery  glances  of  the  sun ;  but  that  ardent  monarch  was 
sinking,  exhausted,  into  the  purple  and  crimson  glories 
of  the  west,  as  they  came  up  the  avenue  at  Lazy- 
Bank. 

All  around  the  house  was  a  perfect  wilderness  of 
flowers,  growing  up  in  vines  to  the  very  eaves,  and 
spreading  out  in  bushes  under  the  windows.  It  was 
built  somewhat  in  the  Italian  villa  style,  with  fanciful 
verandas  and  queer  oriel  windows.  The  place  com- 
prised only  some  sixteen  acres,  but  the  whole  of  this 
was  kept  in  the  most  perfect  order.  The  taste  of  the 
4 


74  Southwold. 

mistress  was  most  manifest  in  the  profusion  of  flowers. 
They  were  everywhere,  overrunning  the  stables  as  well 
as  the  house  and  arbors,  and  gleaming  in  gay  parterres 
on  the  lawn.  Even  at  the  foots  of  the  trees,  little  beds 
of  anemones  and  violets  sprang  up  out  of  the  grass, 
and  splendid  day  lilies  made  the  shadiest  places  bright. 

On  entering  the  house,  the  gentlemen  were  shown 
into  the  drawing-room,  where  the  same  fanciful  taste 
was  visible  in  the  exquisite  French  paper  painted  in 
wreaths  of  roses,  and  the  dainty  mirrors  and  furniture. 
After  a  moment  they  were  joined  by  Mr.  Clarkson, 
who  informed  them  that  the  ladies  were  enjoying  the 
sunset  in  the  west  veranda.  Following  their  host,  they 
were  conducted  through  a  window  on  to  the  piazza, 
where  there  was  a  splendid  view  of  the  Hudson  and  the 
hills. 

Mrs.  Clarkson  greeted  them  with  her  usual  vivacity, 
and  presented  her  friend,  Miss  Fielding.  If  Floyd  had 
been  fascinated  before,  the  spell  was  riveted  now.  As 
she  stood  there  in  a  dress  of  white  muslin  ornamented 
with  rose-colored  ribbons,  the  mellow  light  of  the  set- 
ting sun  fairly  illuminating  her  golden  hair  and  thin  dra- 
pery, he  was  almost  ready  to  adore  her  as  an  angel. 
He  should  have  remembered  that  he  who  was  fair 
enough  to  be  called  "  Son  of  the  Morning "  was  once 
an  angel  too. 

As  no  one  else  was  expected,  dinner  was  soon  an- 
nounced. Floyd  had  the  happiness  of  handing  Medora 
in,  and  sitting  beside  her  during  the  meal.  She  was 
more  brilliant  than  usual,  and  so  charmed  was  Mr. 
Southwold,  that  when  the  ladies  withdrew,  leaving  the 
gentlemen  to  their  wine  and  cigars,  he  said  to  Floyd : 


Southwold.  75 

"  Really,  I  do  not  blame  you  for  your  admiration  of 
Miss  Fielding.  She  is  magnificent." 

Floyd,  who  was  almost  bewildered  with  the  thousand 
new  sensations  that  were  trembling  in  his  breast,  scarcely 
knew  what  to  reply,  and  very  soon  rose  to  quit  the  table. 

"  Are  you  going  to  leave  us  ?"  asked  Mr.  Clarkson. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Floyd,  "  capital  as  your  wine  is,  I 
prefer  the  sparkle  of  the  ladies'  chat." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Southwold,  "but 
don't  be  too  devoted  to  /Xauxw-rrjj." 

Floyd  found  them  still  on  the  veranda,  as  the  moon- 
light was  superb,  and  they  preferred  the  cool  night  air  to 
the  closer  atmosphere  of  the  house.  He  seated  himself 
near  Medora,  and  when  the  other  gentlemen  joined 
Mrs.  Clarkson,  their  merry  talk  left  them  quite  alone. 
The  moments  glided  away  without  his  knowing  how,  in 
listening  to  the  silvery  tones  of  Medora's  voice.  Her 
ideas  on  most  subjects  were  new  and  original,  and 
there  was  a  self-reliance  and  evidence  of  thought  in  her 
conversation  that  he  had  never  before  met  in  a  lady. 
She,  too,  was  well  pleased  with  her  companion.  Of 
course  she  had  intended  to  fascinate  him  before  she  saw 
him ;  for,  was  he  not  rich  ?  But  she  was  surprised  to 
find  him  a  man  of  so  much  intelligence  and  such  elegant 
attainments.  When,  therefore,  his  uncle  summoned 
him  to  leave,  she  joined  with  a  cordiality  that  was  not 
altogether  feigned  in  his  regrets  at  the  necessity  for 
departure.  As  they  rose  to  go,  Mr.  Southwold  said  to 
Medora : 

"  Well,  Miss  Fielding,  I  think  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
fulfil  a  conditional  promise  I  made  some  time  ago  to 
Mrs.  Clarkson." 


~6  Southwold. 

"  Indeed !  what  was  that  ?" 

"  That  I  should  give  you  a  party  when  you  came. 
The  condition  I  will  not  mention  ;  I  will  only  say,  you 
have  more  than  complied  with  it." 

Medora  looked  puzzled ;  but  with  instinctive  tact  for- 
bore to  urge  an  explanation.  She  merely  said,  "I  am 
much  obliged  to  you,  sir ;  I  am  sure,  from  what  I  have 
heard  Mrs.  Clarkson  say,  a  party  at  your  house  would  be 
very  delightful." 

"  It  cannot  be  otherwise,  I  am  sure,  if  it  is  graced  by 
the  presence  of  two  such  ladies,"  replied  Mr.  Southwold 
with  a  courtly  bow  ;  "  but  when  shall  it  be  ?  " 

"Oh!  Mr.  Southwold,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clarkson, 
"  don't  have  it  just  yet ;  mine  must  be  first,  and  we  will 
have  ample  time  to  settle  the  date  by  and  by. " 

"  As  you  please.  I  dare  say  my  nephew  will  keep  me 
informed  of  your  engagements." 

"  With  pleasure,  if  Mrs.  Clarkson  will  permit  it,"  said 
Floyd,  eagerly  seizing  any  pretext  for  frequent  inter- 
course. 

"  To  be  sure  I  will,  and  from  this  time  shall  expect  your 
daily  ride  to  terminate  here." 

As  she  spoke,  the  carriage  drove  up,  and  the  two 
gentlemen  began  to  make  their  adieux.  With  true 
lover's  instinct  Floyd  placed  himself  so  as  to  shake  hands 
first  with  Mr.  Clarkson,  then  with  Mrs.  Clarkson,  and 
last  with  Medora.  Yet  he  approached  her,  hardly  daring 
to  hope  for  the  favor.  She  had  just  honored  Mr. 
Southwold  with  a  friendly  grasp,  but  then  he  was  an  old 
gentleman,  and  they  were  such  recent  acquaintances,  he 
half  hesitated  as  he  bowed,  but  Medora,  apparently  as  a 
matter  of  course,  extended  her  hand.  The  momentary 


Southwold.  77 

pressure  of  those  soft  fingers,  slight  as  it  was,  thrilled  to 
his  very  heart,  and  he  went  off  rejoicing  that  his  ma- 
noeuvre had  been  so  successful,  and  that  her  electric 
clasp  was  the  last  that  touched  his  hand.  Was  it  any 
wonder  that,  in  spite  of  the  warning  from  Mr.  South- 
wold,  his  dreams  that  night  were  of  the  fair  /Xauxwoj  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Love  took  up  the  glass  of  time,  and  tossed  it  in  his  glowing  hands, 
Every  moment  lightly  shaken  ran  itself  o'er  golden  sands." 

Locksky  Hatt. — TENNYSON. 

"  I  assert,  with  Mr.  Dryden,  that  the  Devil  is  the  hero  of  Milton's 
poem ;  his  plan,  which  he  lays,  pursues,  and  at  last  executes,  being 
the  subject  of  the  poem." 

CHESTERFIELD'S  LETTERS. 

To  Floyd  the  hours  of  that  next  month  went  by 
on  golden  pinions.  Every  day  he  saw  Medora,  either 
at  Lazy-Bank  or  the  house  of  some  mutual  acquaint- 
ance, and  each  interview  riveted  more  strongly  the 
chains  that  bound  him.  He  was  dreaming  that  deli- 
cious dream  of  first  love  that  comes  but  once  in  the  fit- 
ful fever  of  life.  Each  moment  of  his  existence  was 
tinged  with  the  rosy  hue  of  the  spell  that  held  him  in 
its  bewitching  enchantment.  The  time  passed  away 
from  her  was  a  blank  only  to  be  endured  by  reveries 
of  which  she  was  the  theme  ;  and  in  her  presence  it  was 
happiness  supreme  merely  to  watch  her  every  motion, 
and  inhale  the  delicate  perfume  of  her  garments.  But 
to  talk  with  her,  and  to  see  those  glorious  eyes  fixed 
upon  him  with  the  earnest,  almost  affectionate  look  they 
sometimes  wore,  or  to  clasp  her  waist  and  touch  her 
hand  in  the  dance,  was  a  bliss  so  intoxicating  that  it 


Southwold.  79 

sent  the  hot  blood  boiling  through  his  veins,  and  all  but 
maddened  him  with  the  intense,  passionate  love  he  durst 
not  as  yet  utter. 

Mr.  Southwold  appeared  very  well  satisfied  with  the 
state  of  affairs,  encouraging  his  nephew's  intimacy  with 
her  by  every  means  in  his  power,  so  that  Floyd  was 
well  content  to  sink  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  deli- 
cious entrancement,  never  doubting  that  he  should  have 
his  uncle's  consent  to  the  alliance  if  he  could  obtain  Me- 
dora's,  and  trusting,  as  all  lovers  do,  that  his  affection 
would  ultimately  be  requited. 

And  yet,  blindly  devoted  as  he  was,  she  sometimes 
said  and  did  things  which  startled  him.  He  endeavored 
to  attribute  her  conduct  to  defects  of  education ;  but 
still  the  thought  would  often  force  itself  upon  him,  that 
his  mother,  who  was  his  ideal  of  all  feminine  perfection, 
would  not  have  been  so  harsh  in  her  judgment  of 
others,  so  sneeringly  contemptuous  of  the  mere  external 
conventionalities  of  religion  and  virtue.  There  were 
many  of  his  old,  preconceived  ideas  which  she  shocked  ; 
many  of  those  observances,  which  he  had  been  brought 
up  from  his  earliest  infancy  to  respect,  she  disregarded. 
And  yet  Medora  understood  herself  and  others  well 
enough  to  see  the  effect  of  this  upon  Floyd,  but  there 
was  a  fierce,  impatient  spirit  within  her  that  chafed  at 
these  restraints,  and  scorned  concealment  even  at  the 
risk  of  losing  him,  although  this  she  considered  scarcely 
possible,  so  confident  was  she  in  her  own  powers  of  fas- 
cination. No:*  v  as  this  to  be  wondered  at,  for  even 
when  she  was  most  cynical,  and  Floyd  most  warm  in 
defending  his  position,  a  smile  or  a  look  could  transform 
him  at  once  into  the  fond  adorer. 


80  Southwold.    . 

One  dreamy  afternoon,  early  in  September,  Floyd 
rode  over  to  Lazy-Bank.  He  was  engaged  to  a  gen- 
tleman's dinner-party  at  six,  and  this,  therefore,  would 
be  his  only  opportunity  of  seeing  Medora  that  day. 
He  was  shown  into  the  boudoir,  a  small  room,  consist- 
ing almost  entirely  of  a  huge  bay-window,  which  looked 
out  on  the  beautiful  Hudson.  The  light  reflected  from 
the  river  fell  in  ripples  on  the  flower-covered  walls  and 
fanciful  furniture;  there  were  several  pictures  in  the 
room,  all  of  them  summer  scenes,  by  sparkling  fountains 
and  clear  streams ;  and  the  only  sunbeam  which  pene- 
trated the  drawn  blinds,  fell  on  a  bowl  of  gold-fish,  and 
shimmered  through  the  water  on  their  burnished  scales. 
The  whole  air  of  the  apartment  was  deliciously  cool  and 
tranquil,  and  the  spell  was  complete  when  Medora  en- 
tered, robed  in  delicate  muslin,  her  round  arms  bare, 
and  her  snowy  shoulders  veiled  only  with  thin  lace. 

Their  talk  was  for  some  time  of  the  airy  nothings  of  the 
day;  at  last  it  turned  on  that  favorite  theme  of  lovers — 
the  evidences  of  individual  tastes  and  traits. 

"I  have  heard,"  said  Medora,  "that  there  are  three 
questions,  which,  if  honestly  answered,  will  give  the  key 
to  any  character." 

"  Indeed  !     What  are  they  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  if  you  will  give  me  leave  to  ask  them." 

"  Certainly  I  will ;  I  should  be  very  glad  to  have  my 
character  analysed  by  you,  so  begin  at  once." 

"  You  will  answer  me  truly  ?" 

"  Of  course ;  I  believe  it  is  my  usual  habit,  especially 
when  you  are  the  querist." 

"  I  hope  so ;  well  then,  what  flower  do  you  prefer  ?" 

Floyd  reflected  a  moment,  then  replied,  "  The  Water 


South  wold.  8l 

Lily,  it  is  so  stately  and  pure,  yet  so  lovingly  dependent 
on  its  friendly  element  for  support,  and  so  modestly 
withdrawn  behind  its  green  leaves." 

"  Rather  cold,  however,"  said  Medora.  "  Now,  second 
— Who  is  your  favorite  poet  ?" 

"  English  poet  ?" 

"  Of  course,  I  do  not  understand  either  Latin  or 
Greek." 

"  Milton,  decidedly." 

"  I  am  disappointed  at  that." 

"Why?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,  when  you  have  answered  the  third 
question.  In  what  period  of  the  world,  other  than  the 
present,  would  you  prefer  to  have  lived  ?" 

"In  ancient  Greece,  at  Athens,  during  the  age  of 
Pericles." 

"  Horribly  democratic,"  said  Medora,  laughing ;  "  but 
on  the  whole  you  have  answered  like  a  good  boy,  which 
I  have  no  doubt  you  are." 

"  Now  it  is  my  turn,"  began  Floyd,  "  and  first — What 
flower  do  you  prefer  ?" 

"  The  Tuberose ;  but  don't  be  so  tiresome  as  to  ask 
the  other  two  questions,"  said  Medora,  and  no  wonder 
she  avoided  inquiries,  to  which,  had  she  been  in  the 
palace  of  Truth,  she  would  have  been  forced  to  reply, 
that  the  passionate  poetry  of  Byron  touched  more  than 
any  other  a  responsive  chord  in  her  heart,  and  that  in 
some  wild  moments  she  had  sighed  for  the  gay  licence 
of  the  dissolute  court  of  Charles  II.  In  order  to  divert 
Floyd's  attention,  she  hastened  to  add,  "  Now  I  will 
tell  you  why  I  found  fault  with  your  choice  of  a  poet. 
I  do  not  in  the  least  share  your  admiration  for  Milton." 
4* 


82  Southwold. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that ;  why  not  ?" 

"  I  think  that  although  many  of  his  verses  are  magni- 
ficent, beyond  almost  anything  that  has  ever  been  written, 
they  have  been  as  a  whole  greatly  overrated ;  in  the  first 
place,  his  expressions  are  often  very  obscure,  and  in  the 
second  place,  I  think  he  has  done  a  great  deal  of  harm." 

"Harm!  How?"  exclaimed  Floyd,  who  had  been 
brought  up  to  reverence  Milton,  as  almost  inspired. 

"  In  this  way,  that  his  Paradise  Lost,  appearing  just 
at  that  era  when  religious  infatuation  was  at  its  climax, 
and  any  writer  on  sacred  subjects  was  looked  upon  as  an 
oracle,  has  come  to  be  regarded  as  next  to  the  Bible  in 
authority,  and  the  wild  speculations  contained  in  it 
accepted  as  truth." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Floyd,  "  but  I  must  absolutely 
deny  both  your  propositions.  In  the  first  place,  I  do  not 
regard  them  as  'wild  speculations,'  and  in  the  second 
place,  I  can  see  no  injury  possible  from  such  a  magni- 
ficent allegorical  epic." 

"  What!  you  do  not  consider  it  hurtful  to  engraft  false 
doctrine  on  true  ?  It  may  not  be  necessary  to  salvation 
to  disbelieve  the  battles  of  the  angels,  but  it  is  certainly 
a  terrible  thing  to  disfigure  what  should  be  a  pure  faith 
with  idle  superstitions." 

"  But  again,  I  repeat  they  are  not  'idle  superstitions.' 
Paradise  Lost  is  merely  an  embodiment,  in  more  extended 
form  of  facts,  the  authority  for  which  is  to  be  found  in 
the  Bible." 

"  You  think  so  ?  Doubtless  many  others  agree  with 
you;  now  let  us  see  how  far  your  position  is  tenable.  In 
the  first  place,  what  are  your  grounds  for  believing  that 
the  spirits  of  evil  are  fallen  angels  ?" 


Southwold.  83 

"  There  are  a  great  many  texts  which  prove  it  conclu- 
sively, in  the  New  Testament,  especially  in  Revelations." 

"  But  I  was  always  taught  that  the  Apocalypse  was  a 
prophecy  of  the  future,  and  not  a  history  of  the  past." 

"  So  it  is,  both." 

"It  does  not  seem  so  to  me;  there  is  a  sort  of  con- 
nexion even  in  its  wildness,  that  would  imply  that  it  all 
has  reference  to  one  period." 

"Even  admitting  that,  there  still  remain  evidences 
sufficient  elsewhere.  The  strongest  verse  which  now 
occurs  to  me  is  one  in  St.  Peter,  of  which  I  do  not 
perhaps  recall  the  exact  words,  but  it  is  very  nearly 
this  : 

" '  For  if  God  spared  not  the  angels  that  sinned,  but 
cast  them  down  to  hell,  and  bound  them  in  chains  of 
darkness  to  reserve  them  unto  judgment.' 

"  Can  you  ask  a  stronger  foundation  for  Milton's 
theory?" 

"  Undoubtedly,"  said  Medora,  a  good  deal  staggered, 
"  that  is  very  conclusive,  but,"  she  added,  ingeniously 
shifting  the  attack,  "  I  do  not  like  this  way  of  taking 
solitary  texts  to  prove  a  point.  You  can  find  authority 
for  any  known  system  of  religion  in  the  Bible  by  picking 
out  a  few  words  here  and  there,  and  stringing  them 
together.  But  I  have  still  another  very  great  objection  to 
the  poem  under  discussion.  Milton  has  been  very  justly 
styled  the  Christian  Homer;  he  deserves  the  title  too 
well ;  he  represents  the  Almighty  and  His  Son,  too  much 
like  the  mythological  heroes,  as  actuated  by  the  passions 
of  men.  Do  you  recollect  what  he  says  of  the  onslaught 
of  the  Saviour  which  caused  the  final  overthrow  of  the 
rebel  angels  ?" 


84  Southwold. 

"  I  do  not  remember  the  exact  words." 
"  Let  me  give  you  a  quotation  then. 


-  Full  soon 


Among  them  he  arrived,  in  his  right  hand 
Grasping  ten  thousand  thunders  which  he  sent 
Before  him,  such  as  in  their  souls  infixed 
Plagues.' 


Now  is  not  that  more  appropriate  to  the  wrathful  Achil- 
les than  the  Merciful  Redeemer  ?" 

Floyd  paused  a  reply.  There  was  something  in  the 
whole  argument  that  shocked  him  inexpressibly,  and  he 
determined  his  answer  should  be  a  severe  one.  Medora, 
anxious  to  escape  from  a  controversy  in  which  she  was 
likely  to  be  worsted,  availed  herself  of  his  momentary 
silence  to  rise  from  the  low  chair,  where  she  had  been 
sitting,  and  with  an  easy  movement,  to  throw  herself 
beside  him  on  the  sofa. 

"  My  friend,"  said  she,  "  we  are  terribly  hypercritical 
for  such  a  warm  afternoon,  come  tell  me  who  your  letter 
is  from  ?"  and  with  the  tip  of  her  finger  she  touched  an 
envelope,  which  appeared  above  his  pocket. 

The  action,  the  words,  the  gesture  drove  every  thought 
but  passionate  admiration  from  Floyd's  mind,  and  she 
had  to  repeat  the  question  before  he  replied. 

"  From  my  mother." 

"  I  thought  so,  what  does  she  say  ?" 

"  She  says  she  longs  to  see  me  very  much.  I  think  I 
shall  go  to  visit  her  soon." 

"  Visit  her  ?"  asked  Medora,  quickly ;  "  then  you  con- 
sider it  your  home  here." 


Southwold.  85 

"  Almost,  but  I  shall,  of  course,  always  spend  a  good 
part  of  my  time  with  her." 

"  How  soon  do  you  leave  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  ;  when  do  you  go  ?" 

"  Not  for  a  fortnight,  yet." 

"  I  shall  certainly  remain  until  then,"  replied  Floyd. 

"  I  hope  so." 

The  words  were  simple,  yet  they  so  thrilled  his  breast 
that  he  longed  to  tell  her  all  that  was  in  it.  He  was  only 
deterred  by  the  thought  which  had  often  before  occurred 
to  him,  that  so  long  as  he  had  no  definite  prospects  for 
the  future,  he  had  no  right  to  ask  her  to  unite  her  fate 
with  his.  Yet  his  voice  fairly  trembled  with  suppressed 
emotion  as  he  replied  : 

"  Thank  you ;  you  do  not  know  how  much  pleasure  it 
gives  me  to  hear  you  say  so." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Medora,  softly  ;  "  be  sure, 
I  spoke  from  my  heart." 

Perhaps  the  barriers  of  honor  that  Floyd  had  set  up 
might  have  been  all  swept  away  by  the  flood  of  passion 
these  words  aroused,  but  at  that  moment  the  little 
French  timepiece  on  the  mantel  chimed  the  half  hour 
past  five,  and  reminded  him  that  he  had  to  ride  home 
and  dress  before  six.  He  rose  at  once,  saying — 

"  I  was  fast  forgetting  all  my  duties  in  your  presence, 
that  clock  has  reminded  me  of  them.  I  must  go." 

He  held  Medora's  hand  a  moment  longer  than  etiquette 
permits  in  bidding  her  good-bye,  and  the  language  of  his 
eyes  uttered  all  that  his  lips  refused  to  speak.  Was  it 
imagination,  or  did  those  soft  fingers  half  return  his 
parting  pressure  ?  Ho  durst  not  trust  himself  to  think. 

When  he  was  gone  Medora  drew  a  long  breath,  that 


86  Southwold. 

resembled  a  sigh.  "  If  I  had  only  known  him  sooner !" 
she  murmured,  "so  honest,  so  amiable,  so  devoted,  I 
might  have  loved  him  once  !  It  seems  scarcely  right  to 
give  in  exchange  for  his  warm  true  heart  only  the  ashes 
of  a  burnt-out  passion !  Eight  f  bah  !" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  -will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 
And  I'll  not  ask  for  wine." 

The  Forrest—  BEN  JONSON. 

"  The  summer  webs  that  float  and  shine, 

The  summer  dews  that  fall, 
Tho'  light  they  be,  this  heart  of  mine 
Is  lighter  thaii  them  alL" 

MOORE'S  MELODIES. 

WHEN  the  homeward  ride  had  somewhat  cooled  the 
fever  of  Floyd's  blood,  the  contents  of  Mrs.  Southwold's 
letter  mingled  with  his  thoughts  even  to  the  partial 
exclusion  of  Medora's  image.  Its  cheerfulness  was 
evidently  forced.  Although  the  expression  of  the  wish  to 
see  him  was  coupled  with  an  injunction  not  to  come  if 
it  was  inconvenient,  he  could  see  the  irrepressible  long- 
ing of  the  mother-heart,  and  determined  to  speak  to  his 
uncle  upon  the  subject  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 

The  dinner  party  for  the  evening  prevented  it  until 
the  next  morning,  but  when  Mr.  Southwold  joined  him 
in  the  library  after  breakfast,  Floyd  began — 

"  Uncle  Southwold,  I  am  beginning  to  think  of  going 
home." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Floyd ;  you  have  twice  before  ex- 


88  '  Southwold. 

pressed  yourself  similarly,  and  I  have  told  you  that  I 
wished  you  to  consider  this  as  your  home." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  sir ;  but  I  ought  to  go  and  see 
my  mother." 

A  frown  crossed  Mr.  Southwold's  brow,  and  he  said, 
"  Certainly,  but  not  just  yet."  He  paused  a  moment, 
reflectively,  and  then  continued :  "  It  is  time  that  I 
should  explain  my  wishes  somewhat.  You  have  now 
been  with  me  nearly  four  months ;  during  that  time  I 
have  found  you,  in  many  respects,  what  I  should  have 
liked  my  son  to  be ;  you  have  become  necessary  to  me  ; 
it  is  my  desire  that  you  always  live  with  me.  Twice  a 
year  you  are  at  liberty  to  make  your  mother  as  long  a 
visit  as  you  choose  ;  perhaps  some  tune  she  may  visit  you 
here.  I  intend  to  make  you  an  allowance  hereafter." — 
Floyd  tried  to  interrupt  him.  "  You  need  not  thank 
me ;  it  is  no  more  than  right  that  your  mother  should 
be  relieved  from  the  burden  of  your  support.  Are  you 
satisfied  with  this  ?" 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  replied  Floyd,  in  a  tone  of  some 
emotion,  "  that  I  am  deeply  grateful  for  your  kindness ; 
but  if  I  may  venture  to  make  a  suggestion,  I  should  be 
very  glad  if  you  will  allow  me  to  complete  the  study  of 
my  profession,  and  obtain  admittance  to  the  bar." 

"  You  want  to  be  an  Attorney,  sir  ?"  asked  Mr.  South- 
wold,  sharply.  "  What  for  ?" 

"  In  order  that  under  any  circumstances  I  may  be 
independent." 

Mr.  Southwold  looked  hard  at  Floyd  for  a  moment 
before  he  answered.  "  You  unintentionally  force  me  to 
explain  myself  still  farther.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  study 
law ;  the  knowledge,  without  the  practice  of  it,  makes  a 


Southwold.  89 

private  gentleman  litigious,  without  enabling  him  to 
defend  his  rights,  and  it  will  never  be  necessary  for  you 
to  earn  your  living."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  con- 
tinued with  an  evident  effort.  "  You  are  aware,  that 

legally  you  are  my  heir,  as  nearest  of  kin,  in  case 

in  case  I  die  intestate.  I  have  never  in  my  life  made  a 
will,  and  I  do  not  intend  to." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  exclaimed  Floyd,  with  honest  since- 
rity, "  I  am  deeply  grieved  that  anything  I  have  said 
has  induced  you  to  speak  on  such  painful  subjects." 

"  No,  Floyd ;  this  conversation  was  necessary  ;  I  am 
glad  we  have  had  it ;  we -will  not  refer  to  it  again.  You 
shall  go  to  see  your  mother  as  soon  as  you  like,  but  first 
I  must  give  my  promised  party  to  Miss  Fielding." 

Uncle  and  nephew  were  soon  deep  in  consultation  as 
to  the  arrangements  for  the  fete,  which  was  fixed  for  the 
following  Friday,  Floyd  riding  over  to  Lazy-Bank  in 
the  afternoon,  to  obtain  Medora's  consent  to  the  day 
selected. 

On  arriving  there,  and  entering  the  drawing-room,  he 
was  a  good  deal  disappointed  to  find  visitors — the 
Misses  Ashley,  and  a  young  cousin  of  Mrs.  Clarkson's. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  Floyd,  as  soon  as  the  first  greet- 
ings were  over,  "  as  ambassador  extraordinary  and  ple- 
nipotentiary from  Mr.  Southwold  to  Miss  Fielding,  to 
know  if  she  will  graciously  consent  to  allow  him  to  give 
a  ball  in  her  honor,  on  Friday  evening  next  ?" 

MEDORA. — "  Miss  Fielding  jis  delighted  to  signify  to 
Mr.  Southwold  her  approbation  of  the  time  selected, 
and  begs  to  present  assurances  of  her  most  distinguished 
consideration, — unless  her  faithful  friend  and  ally,  Susan, 
has  other  views." 


9o 


South  wold . 


MRS.  CLARKSON.— No,  we  have  no  engagements  to 
interfere  ;  I  can  see  but  one  objection,  and  that  is,  that 
it  is  Friday." 

FLOYD. — "  What !  superstitious  ?" 

MRS.  C. — "  A  little,  perhaps." 

MEDORA. — "  Yes,  indeed,  Sue  is  dreadfully  so ;  she 
will  not  sit  at  table  with  thirteen,  or  start  on  a  journey, 
or  begin  anything  else  on  Friday." 

MRS.  C. — "  I  am  certain  to  have  ill-luck  if  I  do.  Why 
once  I  engaged  two  servants  on  that  day — very  much 
against  my  will  I  assure  you,  nothing  but  necessity  com- 
pelled me  to  it — and  before  the  week  was  out,  one  broke 
her  arm  and  the  other  ran  away  with  the  footman." 

FLOYD. — "  Wonderful  coincidence  !  You  really  alarm 
me.  Miss  Fielding,  shall  we  give  it  up  on  this  ac- 
count ?" 

MEDORA. — "  I  do  not  in  the  least  care  for  omens  myself, 
but  let  us  be  guided  by  the  general  opinion." 

Miss  ASHLEY. — "I  should  think  that,  in  this  case, 
something  on  the  score  of  luck  might  be  given  up  in  con- 
sideration of  the  splendid  moon  we  shall  have  on  that 
evening." 

MRS.  C. — "  So  there  will  be !  I  had  forgotten  that,  and 
if  we  wait  till  next  week  the  moon  will  be  too  old.  Let 
it  be  Friday,  then,  by  all  means." 

FLOYD. — "  Then  it  is  settled." 

MRS.  C. — "Absolutely  decided;"  then  pointing  to 
refreshments  on  the  side  table,  "  but  how  rude  I  am,  we 
were  so  busy  talking,  I  forgot  to  ask  you  if  you  would 
not  take  a  glass  of  wine." 

FLOYD. — "  Thank  you,  if  Miss  Fielding  will  do  me  the 
honor  to  join  me  in  drinking  success  to  the  ball." 


South  wold.  91 

MEDORA. — "  Certainly." 

Rising,  they  approached  the  table  together,  and 
Floyd,  filling  the  glasses  as  they  raised  them,  said  in  a 
low  voice,  and  with  a  significant  look — 

"  Here's  to  the  queen  of  the  fete  at  Southwold." 

Medora  bowed  with  a  smile,  merely  tasting  the  wine. 
Then  ever  mindful  of  the  most  punctilious  courtesy,  she 
disregarded  Floyd's  efforts  to  detain  her  in  a  low  chat, 
and  turned  away  to  rejoin  the  other  visitors. 

He  remained  a  moment  at  the  table  to  finish  his  wine, 
but  by  an  extraordinary  error,  it  was  Medora's  glass  and 
not  his  own  that  he  emptied.  With  the  flavor  of  the 
Sherry  yet  lingering  on  his  lips,  he  took  his  leave  and 
rode  away  home. 

The  next  two  days  were  busy  in  preparing  and  issuing 
the  invitations  for  the  party.  The  third,  the  fete  day,  in 
arrangements  for  the  evening.  There  were  several 
guests  staying  at  Southwold.  This,  with  the  necessity 
for  numerous  long  rides,  alone  prevented  Floyd  from 
either  visiting  Lazy-Bank  again  or  speaking  to  his  uncle 
on  a  subject  which  now  lay  very  near  his  heart. 

Although  his  acquaintance  with  Miss  Fielding  had 
been  so  brief,  it  really  was  much  more  intimate  from 
their  frequent  intercourse  than  twice  the  length  of 
time  would  have  made  it  in  town,  and  he  considered  it 
quite  enough  to  warrant  him  in  addressing  her.  Since 
his  conversation  with  his  uncle,  his  prospects  were  much 
brighter,  and  more  settled  than  they  had  ever  been 
before.  But  after  his  recent  kindness  he  felt  it  incum- 
bent upon  him  first  to  obtain  Mr.  South  wold's  consent, 
although  he  had  no  doubt  it  would  be  readily  granted. 

At  last,  Friday  evening  came,  and  Floyd,  tired  with 


92  Southwold. 

his  varied  exertions,  went  out  for  a  stroll.  Looking 
around  him  at  that  fine  old  house,  and  the  broad  domain 
that  was  to  be  his  inheritance,  he  dreamed  bright 
dreams  of  the  years  to  come,  when  he  should  dwell  here 
with  that  fair  woman  to  share  his  life.  His  heart  swelled 
tumultuously  with  these  rapturous  hopes,  forgetful  or 
unheeding  the  warning  of  one  of  his  favorite  German 
proverbs — 

"  gh  soitiu  gjjrini  nm  (jcilsirw  fobor  riiwn  sturm." 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  The  sounds  that  fall 
Around,  above, 
Re-echo  all 
"With  love,  with  love, 
"With  love,  with  love  " 

CRICHTON. 

IT  was  a  glorious  night.  The  harvest  moon  poured 
down  its  flood  of  white  radiance  on  the  dark  woods, 
heavy  with  the  lush  greenness  of  late  summer,  and 
flashed  in  silver  sparkles  from  the  dusky  waters  of  the 
rolling  river.  In  the  deep  azure  of  the  sky  the  evening 
star  alone,  for  a  brief  season,  disputed  the  sovereignty 
of  the  heavens  with  the  pale  Queen  of  night,  and  then 
sank  overwhelmed  in  the  lingering  crimson  of  the  west. 
Yet  not  often  has  Venus  faded  before  Diana.  The 
rough  hills  were  shrouded  in  black  masses  of  shadow, 
illumined  only  on  their  highest  peaks  with  a  trembling 
light,  as  if  the  chaste  huntress  was  there  keeping  her 
watch  for  the  beautiful  Endymion. 

Southwold  was  gorgeous  that  evening.  All  around 
the  house  the  trees  were  gay  with  many-tinted  lamps, 
although  the  thicker  woods  were  left  to  the  mysterious 
lights  and  shades  of  the  ghostly  moonbeams.  The  piaz- 
zas were  bordered  with  blossoming  shrubs,  and  inside 
there  were  wreaths  of  flowers  festooning  the  staircase 


94.  Southwold. 

and  halls,  and  vases  of  bouquets  on  every  table  and 
mantel  where  there  could  be  found  space  to  set  them. 
The  great  saloon  was  cleared  for  dancing,  and  the  music 
of  the  band  stole  through  the  open  windows,  and  rang 
out  in  echoing  cadences  on  the  still  night.  The  air  had 
that  soft  and  enervating  warmth  that  sometimes  per- 
vades our  early  September  days  ;  and  inside  the  house, 
and  out  of  it,  everywhere  the  atmosphere  was  heavy 
with  the  voluptuous  perfume  of  the  tuberose.  With 
each  inspiration  of  that  powerful  fragrance,  Floyd 
thought  of  her  who  had  said  it  was  her  favorite  flower  ; 
and  as  he  looked  at  the  queenly  stalks,  with  their  per- 
fect blossoms  clustering  around  them,  and  inhaled  the 
intoxicating  sweetness  of  their  odorous  breath,  it  seemed 
to  him  no  inappropriate  emblem  of  that  woman,  at  once 
so  beautiful  and  so  fascinating. 

Driving  towards  the  party,  through  the  solemn  moon- 
light, Medora  Fielding  was  pondering  on  what  would 
be  the  best  means  to  induce  Floyd  to  offer  himself  to 
her  at  once.  It  had  been  her  settled  determination,  for 
some  time  past,  to  be  at  least  engaged,  if  not  married, 
before  Lascelles  returned  from  Europe.  It  mattered 
little  to  whom,  so  long  as  the  parti  was  rich.  Still,  of 
course,  she  preferred  that  he  should  be  young  and  hand- 
some. As  she  imagined  that  Floyd  possessed  the  first 
of  these  qualifications,  and  knew  that  he  had  the  last 
two,  she  considered  him  a  peculiarly  desirable  alliance ; 
and,  therefore,  when  she  reached  the  dressing-room, 
while  apparently  absorbed  in  the  arrangement  of  her 
hair  before  the  mirror,  she  was,  in  reality,  thinking  what 
would  be  her  surest  course  to  bring  her  last  month's 
flirtation  to  a  speedy  and  satisfactory  close.  It  would 


South  wold.  95 

seem  that  the  result  of  her  meditations  was  pleasing,  for 
there  was  a  triumphant  smile  on  her  lips  as  she  turned 
from  the  contemplation  of  her  own  fair  image,  though 
could  she  have  seen  the  thrill  of  delight  which  convulsed 
Floyd's  heart  when  they  met,  she  would  have  felt  that 
it  needed  no  promise  to  prevent  him  from  forgetting 
her. 

She  was  lovely  that  night,  for  when  was  she  not  ? 
She  was  one  of  those  women,  who,  every  time  you  see 
them,  impress  you  with  the  idea,  of  being  particularly 
well  dressed.  Her  friends  were  constantly,  and  with 
sincerity,  complimenting  her  on  her  costume.  Although 
her  taste  was  perfect  when  she  had  the  money  for  its 
gratification,  it  was  her  superb  beauty  that  caused  what- 
ever she  wore  to  appear  to  be  exactly  what  was  most 
becoming.  So  on  this  occasion,  although  the  light  folds 
of  her  rose-colored  drapery  harmonized  admirably  with 
her  faultless  blonde  complexion,  and  sunny  hair,  it  was 
not  to  that  she  owed  her  superiority  over  every  other 
woman  in  the  room,  but  to  her  own  surpassing  loveli- 
ness. 

The  ball  went  on  gloriously.  The  hours — those 
golden  hours,  wherein  love  and  beauty  reign  trium- 
phant, sped  away  on  magic  wings ;  and  Floyd,  from 
his  multifarious  duties  as  host,  had  as  yet  no  opportunity 
for  speaking  to  Medora,  beyond  a  few  passing  words. 
During  the  supper  he  succeeded  in  engaging  her  hand 
for  the  next  dance,  which  she  whispered  she  had  been 
reserving  for  him.  The  moment  he  was  released  from 
his  hospitable  attendance  at  the  table  he  went  to  join 
her,  and  was  a  good  deal  disappointed  to  find  it  not  a 
polka  or  waltz,  but  only  a  quadrille. 


g6  Southwold. 

uDo  you  think  our  vis-d-vis  handsome?"  inquired 
Medora  in  the  last  figure,  indicating  a  tall,  stylish  girl, 
with  more  intelligence  than  amiability  in  the  expression 
of  her  decidedly  striking  face. 

"  Rather,"  said  Floyd.  "  Who  is  she ;  for  I  did  not 
catch  her  name  when  I  was  presented  ?" 

"  It  is  Miss  Henrietta  Murray.  She  has  been  quite  a 
belle,  although  they  call  her  a  great  flirt.  She  is  very 
frank  about  it,  however:  she  openly  avows  that  she 
never  intends  to  marry,  and  says  she  has  taken  for  her 
motto  the  celebrated  advice  of  Washington,  in  his  fare- 
well address — '  Friendly  relations  with  all,  entangling 
alliances  with  none.'  But  I  imagine  she  is  only  waiting 
for  some  man  wrho  shall  combine  two  requirements 
rather  difficult  to  unite — birth  and  wealth." 

"  And  do  you  consider  those  the  two  most  desirable 
attributes  for  a  husband  to  possess  ?" 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  Medora,  turning  upon  him 
those  glorious  eyes,  full  of  eloquent  softness.  "  In 
my  estimation  there  are  other  qualitfes  far  more  valu- 
able— youth,  beauty,  and,  above  all,  love."  She  held 
out  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  but  before  he  could  answer, 
added,  "  I  believe  it  is  our  turn  to  dance." 

Small  blame  to  Floyd  if  he  endeavored  to  convey  a 
suitable  reply  in  the  ardent  clasp  of  her  yielding  fingers. 
But  before  the  quadrille  was  over  and  the  music  had 
ceased,  he  remembered  his  resolution  not  to  address  her 
without  consulting  his  uncle,  and  heroically  determined 
to  adhere  to  it.  Yet  ten  minutes  later,  when  the  next 
dance  began,  her  partner  searched  the  house  and  piazzas 
for  her  in  vain.  It  was  dangerous  temerity  for  Floyd 
to  stroll  with  her  up  and  down  that  lonely  walk,  and 


Southwold.  97 

absolute  foolhardiness  to  seat  himself  beside  her  in  the 
tempting  seclusion  of  that  vine-covered  arbor.  It  looked 
towards  the  west,  and  the  moonlight  shone  full  into  it, 
falling  in  silver  flakes  over  Medora's  snowy  shoulders 
and  arms,  and  gleaming  with  a  pallid  radiance  on  the 
pearls  that  rested  on  her  bosom,  and  rose  and  fell  with 
every  undulation  of  her  heaving  breast. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Medora,  "  that  I  never  saw  so 
perfect  a  night.  I  am  sure  I  shall  always  remember  this 
as  one  of  the  pleasantest  evenings  I  ever  passed." 

"  I  think  the  party  has  gone  off  well,"  replied  Floyd, 
"but  I  have  not  enjoyed  myself  much  until  now." 

Medora  made  no  reply,  except  by  glancing  towards 
him  as  he  spoke ;  then  slowly  dropping  her  eyes  under 
his  ardent  gaze,  a  delicate  blush  suffusing  her  cheek. 

"  Miss  Medora,"  continued  Floyd,  "  I  have  a  great 
favor  to  ask  you ;  will  you  promise  to  grant  it  ?" 

"  Unless  it  is  very  difficult,  I  shall,  certainly." 

"  Will  you  select  for  me  a  rosebud  from  this  vine  on 
the  arch ;  so  that  I  may  always  keep  it  as  a  memento  of 
this  evening,  and  especially  of  this  glorious  scene  ?" 

"  With  pleasure.  That  is  a  very  simple  request.  I 
would  do  much  more  for  a  friend  like  you,"  said  Me- 
dora, rising  and  drawing  off  her  glove.  She  chose  out 
what  appeared  in  the  uncertain  light  to  be  a  beautiful 
blossom,  and  reseating  herself,  began,  with  busy  fingers, 
to  arrange  it. 

"  I  am  breaking  off  all  the  thorns,"  she  said,  "  so  that 
when  you  see  it,  there  may  be  nothing  disagreeable 
about  it,  to  recall  one  unpleasant  circumstance  in  your 
remembrance  of  this  evening." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Floyd,  earnestly ;  "  and 
5 


98  Southwold. 

although  I  need  no  reminder  to  think  of  you,  I  shall 
prize  it  far  more  than  I  have  the  power  to  express." 

"  There  now,  it  is  very  sweet,"  said  Medora,  and  she 
extended  it  to  him.  Floyd  leaned  forward  to  take  the 
rose.  He  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  touch  the 
hand  that  held  it.  The  trembling  Angers  were  not 
withdrawn,  and,  in  another  instant,  it  was  imprisoned 
within  his  own,  and  he  was  covering^  it  with  burning 
kisses. 

This  was  a  dangerous  pleasure.  It  roused  within 
him  such  a  tornado  of  passion  as  swept  away  every 
thought  but  love — intense,  irresistible,  unconquerable. 
And  this  was  not  the  first  time  that  the  arguments  of 
feeling  have  outweighed  all  other  considerations,  even 
honor  and  life.  For  since  that  olden  time  when  the 
mighty  Samson  was  unable  to  reserve  the  secret  that 
was  his  power  from  the  wiles  of  the  fair  Delilah,  down 
to  the  days  when  Le  Grand  Monarque  reckoned  truly 
that  the  fascinations  of  a  beautiful  French  woman  would 
win  from  his  English  cousin  concessions  greater  than 
the  most  subtle  diplomacy,  there  has  ever  been  more 
magic  hi  a  woman's  touch  than  in  all  the  spells  of 
enchantment,  and  more  eloquence  in  a  woman's  voice 
than  in  the  noblest  periods  that  have  been  rounded  since 
Demosthenes. 

"Oh!  my  own  Medora!"  murmured  Floyd,  as  his 
arm  stole  round  her  yielding  waist. 

In  that  intoxicating  moment,  he  heard  and  saw 
nothing  but  the  beautiful  girl  beside  him,  and  did  not 
notice  that  figures  were  rapidly  approaching  the  arbor. 
Fortunately  for  himself,  Medora  was  less  absorbed  than 
her  lover.  She  checked  the  mad  words  on  his  lips,  and 


Southwold.  99 

started  from  his  embrace  just  as  a  clear,  ringing  voice 
called : 

"  Medora !  Medora !     Is  Miss  Fielding  there  ?" 

"What  is  it,  Sue?"  she  said,  stepping  forward  and 
meeting  Mrs.  Clarkson  at  the  entrance. 

Floyd  had  an  instant  to  recover  himself,  yet  he  still 
trembled  with  the  wild  thrill  of  that  caress. 

"  We  must  go  at  once,"  said  Mrs.  Clarkson,  hurriedly. 
"  Don't  you  see  how  dark  the  sky  is  ?  It  will  rain  in 
half  an  hour." 

Then  Floyd  perceived,  for  the  first  time,  that  the 
moon,  which  before  had  looked  down  upon  them  with 
mild  radiance,  had  now  hidden  her  sad  face  behind 
heavy  clouds,  so  that  a  funereal  blackness  enveloped  the 
scene,  a  moment  ago  so  bright. 

"  I  have  hunted  for  you  everywhere,"  continued  Mrs. 
Clarkson,  petulantly.  "Come!  Mr.  Southwold,  you 
must  hurry !" 

There  was  no  opportunity  for  further  conversation 
when  they  reached  the  house.  There  was  a  rapid 
robing  of  the  ladies,  a  hasty  good-night,  and  the  guests 
speedily  departed. 

Floyd  acquitted  himself  of  his  final  duties  like  one 
walking  in  a  dream.  He  was  still  delirious  with  the 
remembrance  of  that  blissful  moment.  When  he 
reached  his  room,  his  first  thought  was  to  draw  from 
its  hiding-place  the  rose  which  Medora  had  given  him. 
As  he  held  it  up  to  the  light,  he  was  struck  with  horror 
to  see  half  the  leaves  fallen  off,  and  at  its  heart  a  ghastly 
worm. 


CHAPTER  XL 

"  Do  as  thee  list — 
Kepe  thine  honour  and  kepe  eke  mine  estate." 

Waife  of  Bathes. — CHAUCER. 

"  C'est  amour,  c'est  amour,  c'est  ley  seul  ie  le  sens 
Mais  le  plus  vif  amour,  le  poison  la  plus  forte 
A  qui  oncq  pauvre  coeur  ait  ouverte  la  porte." 

Sonnets. — HONTAIGXE. 

AFTER  a  night  that  was  full  of  dreams  and  reveries  of 
future  happiness,  Floyd  rose  with  the  resolution  of  at 
once  informing  his  uncle  that  he  was  about  to  address 
Miss  Fielding.  Going  down  stairs  he  ordered  his  horse 
for  the  earliest  hour  at  which  etiquette  would  permit  a 
visit  to  Lazy-Bank,  and  then  sought  out  Mr.  Southwold 
and  requested  a  few  moments'  private  conversation  with 
him  after  breakfast. 

The  meal  passed  off  rather  constrainedly,  for  Floyd's 
thoughts  were  busy  with  his  coming  interview.  He  felt 
an  awkward  embarrassment  at  the  avowal  he  was  about 
to  make  to  his  uncle,  and  when  the  library  door  closed 
upon  them  he  found  himself  becoming  very  much  con- 
fused, a  state  of  mind  which  was  not  relieved  by  Mr. 
Southwold's  abrupt — 

"  Well,  sir,  what  is  it  ?" 


South  wold.  101 

With  a  heroic  effort  Floyd  overcame  his  reluctance 
to  approach  the  delicate  subject,  and  replied — 

"  I  wish  to  consult  you  on  a  matter  of  the  deepest 
interest  to  my  future  happiness.  You  have,  doubtless, 
noticed  my  attentions  to  Miss  Fielding;  I  had  hoped, 
.  indeed,  that  you  did  not  disapprove  of  them." 

"  Certainly  not,  I  always  like  to  see  a  man  of  your 
age  fond  of  society ;  I  presumed,  of  course,  that  there 
was  nothing  serious  in  them." 

"  You  are  very  much  mistaken,  sir ;  it  is  my  wish, 
with  your  consent,  to  address  her." 

Mr.  Southwold's  brow  darkened,  and  he  asked 
harshly — 

"  Are  you  engaged  to  her  ?"> 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Floyd  ;  "  I  would  not  take  so  im- 
portant a  step  without  consulting  you." 

"That  was  right,"  said  Mr.  South  wold,  a  little 
softened;  "then,  as  you  are  not  in  honor  bound,  there  is 
no  harm  done,  for  I  am  extremely  averse  to  your 
marrying." 

"  What  are  your  objections,  sir  ?"  demanded  Floyd, 
much  surprised. 

"  To  the  young  lady,  none  in  the  world ;  but,  my  old 
bachelor  habits  are  very  fixed,  and  I  do  not  like  to  have 
them  interfered  with ;  for  that  reason  I  have  never  had 
any  lady  visitors  here,  and  to  have  even  your  wife  and 
children,  permanently,  would  be  an  annoyance  I  could 
not  think  of  for  a  moment.  I  am  confident  this  is  a 
passing  fancy  which  you  will  soon  overcome." 

"I  assure  you,  sir,"  answered  Floyd,  calmly,  "you 
are  entirely  mistaken ;  this  is  no  boyish  passion  to  be 
lightly  resigned." 


i  o2  South  wold. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  talk  as  all  young  men  do  ;  go 
home  and  see  your  mother,  a  few  weeks'  absence  will  put 
an  end  to  all  this." 

Floyd  rose.  "  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  uncle," 
he  said,  with  dignity,  "  and  for  your  sake  I  would  sacri- 
fice much,  but  do  not  ask  me  to  relinquish  rny  hopes  of 
happiness  with  Miss  Fielding." 

"  Since  you  treat  the  matter  so  seriously,"  replied  Mr. 
South  wold,  coldly,  "I  will  answer  you  in  the  same  tone; 
you  may  go  and  offer  yourself  to  the  young  lady,  if  she 
refuses  you  well  and  good,  there  will  then  be  no  harm 
done ;  if  she  accepts  you,  you  may  return  here  if  you 
like,  but  the  moment  you  are  married  your  allowance 
ceases,  and  this  is  no  longer  your  home.  Although, 
unless  you  commit  some  worse  offence,  it  shall  make 
no  difference  in  your  inheritance." 

"  I  shall  comply  with  your  suggestions,  sir,"  said 
Floyd,  bowing.  "  I  thank  you  for  your  considera- 
tion." 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Floyd  was  on  his  way  to  Lazy- 
Bank.  He  rode  rapidly,  vainly  endeavoring  to  sup- 
press the  bitter  feelings  which  this  conversation  with  Mr. 
.  Southwold  had  aroused.  Those  few  cold  words  had 
dashed  to  the  ground  all  the  delightful  imaginings  which 
had  made  his  future  so  bright.  The  huge  selfishness 
which  he  had  before  half  suspected  to  be  one  of  his 
uncle's  distinguishing  characteristics,  now  thrust  itself 
upon  him  in  all  its  naked  deformity ;  he  saw  the  out- 
ward kindness  of  the  past  four  months  in  its  real  light, 
as  only  shown  him  because  his  cheerful  society  formed 
an  agreeable  relief  from  his  sometimes  lonely  existence. 
Mr.  Southwold  wished  his  nephew  to  remain  unmarried, 


South  wold.  1 03 

that  he  might  never  be  annoyed  by  the  restraint  of  a 
lady's  presence,  and  that  his  own  comfort  might  always 
be  the  paramount  consideration.  He  was  willing  to 
sacrifice  to  his  selfish  gratification  all  Floyd's  hopes  of 
that  domestic  life  in  which  every  young  man  expects  to 
find  his  truest  happiness. 

Only  the  night  before,  Floyd  had  received  from  the 
woman  who  was  dearer  to  him  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  such  encouragement  as  warranted  him  in  suppos- 
ing that  his  honest  love  was  returned.  He  had  thought 
then  that  he  could  offer  her  a  home  worthy  of  her  accept- 
ance ;  but  now,  he  could  only  ask  her  to  share  with  him 
the  obscurity  of  poverty.  It  seemed  to  him,  with  his 
nobly  disinterested  nature,  selfish  and  cruel  to  wish  her, 
who  was  so  well  fitted  to  adorn  society,  to  resign  all 
for  him ;  and  had  he  not  felt  that  his  own  honor  and 
his  respect  for  her  absolutely  required  him  to  complete 
the  avowal  last  night  trembling  on  his  lips,  he  would 
have  willingly  suffered  in  silence,  and  never  permitted 
himself  the  sweet  pleasure  of  declaring  his  love. 

While  awaiting  Medora  in  the  boudoir  at  Lazy-Bank, 
his  restless  excitement  was  such,  that  he  could  scarcely 
remain  quietly  seated.  She  came  in,  looking  a  shade 
paler  than  usual,  and  met  him  with  an  embarrassment 
in  her  manner  almost  equal  to  his  own.  Little  did  he 
suspect  the  weary  vigil  she  had  kept  last  night,  in 
endeavoring  to  school  herself  to  the  calm  contemplation 
of  accepting  the  offer  that  she  felt  sure  would  the  next 
day  be  made,  or  that  she  met  him  with  the  deliberate 
intention  of  not  committing  herself  until  she  was  well 
assured  that  his  worldly  prospects  were  as  brilliant  as 
she  had  been  led  to  suppose. 


104  South  wold. 

Floyd  ventured  to  seat  himself  beside  her  on  the 
sofa,  and  then  with  trembling  lips  began : — 

"  Miss  Medora,  you  can  readily  guess  that  since  last 
night  all  my  thoughts  have  been  full  of  you,  and  that  I 
have  come  here  this  morning  to  tell  you  how  much  I 
love  you."  Then  glancing  at  her  downcast  eyes,  he 
went  on  hurriedly.  "  Do  not  condemn  my  selfishness, 
though  I  have  nothing  now  to  give  you  but  a  true  and 
faithful  heart.  I  should  not  have  ventured  to  address 
you  had  I  not  been,  until  to-day,  ignorant  of  my  real 
situation." 

The  color  which  his  words  had  ripened  to  a  blush  in 
Medora's  cheeks  faded  slowly  away,  and  she  released 
herself  from  the  trembling  arm  that  he  had  stolen  about 
her  waist.  At  this  act,  Floyd,  who  had  paused,  await- 
ing her  reply  in  breathless  silence,  exclaimed  passion- 
ately : — 

"  Oh,  Medora,  do  not  repulse  me ;  only,  for  pity's 
sake,  tell  me  that  you  love  me  a  little." 

She  glanced  at  his  convulsed  features,  and  touched 
by  the  depth  of  real  feeling  they  expressed,  said 
gently — 

"  My  friend,  do  not  agitate  yourself  so  much ;  let  us 
speak  calmly  on  this  subject,  so  important  to  us  both." 

"  I  will  do  anything  you  choose,"  replied  Floyd,  with 
more  composure,  "  if  you  will  only  tell  me  that  you  love 
me." 

Withou  noticing  this  appeal,  Medora  asked : 

"  Why  do  you  talk  of  your  selfishness  towards  me  ? 
I  have  ever  found  you  a  thoughtful  friend." 

"I  trust  I  should  always  be  that,"  said  Floyd,  tenderly, 
"  but  I  am  distressed  that  I  am  not  wealthy,  and  that  I 


Southwold.  105 

can  only  offer  you  an  honorable  name,  and  the  slender 
pittance  of  my  patrimony." 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Medora,  astonished,  "  are  you 
not  your  Uncle's  heir  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Floyd,  reluctantly,  "I  believe  I 
shall  be  under  any  circumstances,  but  he  does  not  wish 
me  to  marry,  and  I  must  lose  my  home  with  him  if  I 
do." 

In  an  instant  Medora  saw  all  that  was  before  her — the 
tedious  waiting  for  an  old  man's  death,  the  false  position 
that  must  always  arise  from  slender  means  and  great 
expectations,  and  the  possibility  of  wasting  the  best 
years  of  her  life,  in  the  same  struggle  against  circum- 
stances of  which  she  was  already  so  weary.  With  that 
consummate  tact  that  never  deserted  her,  she  seized  at 
once  the  most  honorable  escape  from  her  dilemma,  by 
answering : 

"  And  you  were  willing  to  relinquish  all  your  present 
advantages  for  me  ?  That  was  very  noble,  but  it  is  a 
sacrifice  I  cannot  permit;  do  not  ask  me  to  love  you; 
henceforth,  let  us  meet  only  as  friends,  and  try  to  forget 
that  you  ever  regarded  me  in  any  other  light." 

Floyd  thought  with  a  bitter  pang  of  his  Uncle's 
cruelty,  that  rendered  him  deserving  of  this  mild  reproof, 
as  he  answered  sadly : 

"  Oh,  Medora !  you  know  that  you  will  always  be 
dearer  to  me  than  my  life,  but  I  thank  you  for  re- 
minding me  of  my  selfish  presumption  in  wishing  you 
to  share  my  poverty ;  my  only  excuse  is  in  the  great  love 
that  is  breaking  my  heart.  Oh,  forgive  me !  My  punish- 
ment is  sufficiently  severe,  I  thank  God  you  do  not 
share  it !" 

5* 


io6  Southwold. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  said  Medora  gently,  at 
the  same  time  extending  her  hand. 

Floyd  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  wild  with  love  and 
despair,  began  with  passionate  words  to  endeavor  to  win 
from  her  some  acknowledgment  of  a  preference,  some 
hope  for  the  future.  But  Medora  rose  quickly  and 
checked  his  impetuosity. 

"  Do  not  urge  me  to  say  what  would  be  worse  than 
useless ;  you  must  go  ;  it  is  unwise  to  prolong  an 
interview  which  is  only  painful,  and  we  had  better  not 
meet  again  until  we  have  both  forgotten  what  would 
perhaps  be  dangerous  for  either  of  us  to  remember." 

Floyd  durst  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  With  trem- 
bling earnestness,  he  pressed  her  hand  for  the  last  time, 
and  choking  back  the  bitter  tears  that  were  blinding 
him,  hurried  from  the  house.  He  mounted  his  horse, 
and,  without  looking  back,  rode  rapidly  away  from  the 
scene  of  his  late  enchantment.  He  strove  to  relieve  his 
excitement  in  the  rapid  motion  of  his  wild  gallop,  and 
plunged  on  through  the  most  unfrequented  paths. 

So  the  spell  was  broken,  the  dream  was  over,  and  the 
sweet  summer  idyl  rudely  ended  ! 

The  fair  prospects  which  had  brightened  his  life  only 
yesterday  were  as  much  changed  as  the  face  of  nature 
by  the  last  night's  storm.  In  his  heart  all  was  ruin  and 
gloom,  and  around  him  the  scene  was  in  harmony  with 
his  wretchedness.  The  clouds  still  hung  dark  and  lower- 
ing, a  cutting  wind  moaned  through  the  trees,  all  the 
way  was  strewn  with  leaves  and  branches,  twisted  off  by 
the  tempest ;  the  whole  aspect  of  the  day  was  sad  and 
dreary.  Hours  passed  in  reckless  wanderings,  and 
although  he  left  Lazy-Bank  while  it  was  yet  morning,  as 


Southwold.  107 

he  drew  near  Southwold  the  short  autumnal  twilight 
was  darkening  to  its  close. 

He  met  his  uncle  in  the  hall. 

"  Have  you  dined,  Floyd  ?"  he  asked ;  then  noticing 
his  nephew's  downcast  looks  and  disordered  dress,  he 
added  in  a  low  tone : 

"I  need  not  ask  you  how  you  have  sped  in  your 
wooing ;  your  pale  face  tells  its  own  tale.  I  thought 
she  would  refuse  you  if  you  told  her  you  had  no 
money !"  he  closed,  triumphantly. 

Floyd  was  roused,  and  replied  fiercely  :  "  I  assure 
you,  sir,  the  grounds  of  Miss  Fielding's  rejection  of  my 
suit  are  such  as  do  her  honor.  I  prefer  not  to  have  the 
subject  alluded  to." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  fellow ;  henceforth  I  am  dumb. 
You  shall  start  for  Stratford  to-morrow;  the  change 
will  benefit  you." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  Is  this  indeed 
The  light-house  top  I  see  ? 
Is  this  the  hill,  is  this  the  kirk, 
Is  this  mine  own  countree?" 

Ancient  Mariner. — COLERIDGE. 

"  Mother,  dearest  mother, 
May  I  then  talk  to  thee  as  I  was  wont  ?" 

Prometheus  Unbound. — SHELLEY. 

WHEN  Floyd  reached  Stratford,  the  sun  had  set,  and 
the  whole  west  was  dyed  with  a  pale  amber.  The  eve- 
ning was  chilly,  and  as  he  walked  from  the  station  to 
his  mother's  house,  the  wind  sighed  drearily  through 
the  tall  elms,  whose  leaves  had  already  lost  the  vivid 
green  of  midsummer,  although  as  yet  no  frost  had  come 
to  tint  them  with  the  short-lived  glories  of  autumn. 

He  had  not  written  to  say  on  what  day  he  should 
arrive,  and  when  he  reached  the  house,  he  entered 
unannounced,  and  made  his  way  to  the  little  parlor. 
There  was  no  one  there,  but  a  cheerful  wood  fire  burned 
upon  the  hearth,  and  Nannie's  pet  kitten  lay  lazily  purr- 
ing on  the  rug.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  room  was 
charmingly  suggestive  of  the  recent  presence  of  ladies, 
something  which  was  entirely  wanting  amid  the  elegance 
of  Southwold.  There  was  his  mother's  wicker  work- 


South  wold.  1 09 

stand,  with  a  wonderful  piece  of  knitting  lying  upon  it, 
and  Nannie's  little  basket,  full  of  delicate  muslin  and 
lace.  A  vase  of  dahlias  arranged  with  artistic  regard 
to  contrast  of  color  was  on  the  table,  and  beside  it  lay 
a  book  with  a  prettily  embroidered  mark  on  the  open 
page. 

Floyd  regarded  all  this  with  loving  eyes,  and  felt  a 
sense  of  comfort  in  the  idea  that  he  was  near  the  one 
woman  who  really  loved  him  better  than  all  the  world 
beside.  But  there  was  none  of  that  bounding  joy  with 
which  he  had  expected  to  return,  before  his  recent  dis- 
appointment. Indeed,  he  felt  as  if  he  never  again  should 
be  as  happily  hopeful  as  he  had  been  only  four  months 
ago. 

It  was  but  a  few  moments  he  was  alone,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  his  mother  and  Nannie,  who  had  been 
at  their  early  tea,  entered  the  room. 

"Why,  Floyd!"  cried  Mrs.  Southwold,  her  face 
flushing  with  delight,  as  she  hastened  forward  to  clasp 
her  son  in  her  arms. 

Nannie  turned  very  pale  when  she  first  saw  him, 
then  a  faint  blush  overspread  her  face,  which  deepened 
to  crimson  as  he  bent  down  to  claim  the  cousin's  privi- 
lege of  a  kiss.  When  they  were  seated,  and  Mrs. 
Southwold  had  an  opportunity  to  look  steadily  at  her 
son,  she  was  struck  with  horror  at  his  changed  appear- 
ance, and  exclaimed : 

"My  dear  boy,  how  pale  you  are!  Have  you  been 
ill  ?" 

"  No,  mamma,"  he  replied,  with  a  smile  intended  to 
be  cheerful,  "there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me;  I 
am  quite  well,  I  assure  you." 


1 1  o  Southwold. 

This  answer  by  no  means  satisfied  his  mother,  whose 
-anxiety  was  considerably  increased  when  she  found  that 
although  he  made  an  effort  to  do  justice  to  the  excellent 
supper  she  had  hastened  to  have  prepared,  it  was  very 
evident  he  had  anything  but  the  appetite  of  a  traveller. 

Once  more  cosily  seated  in  the  parlor,  Floyd  spoke 
much  of  his  uncle's  kindness  to  him,  and  talked  of  mak- 
ing Southwold  his  permanent  home  as  a  settled  and 
most  desirable  arrangement.  Of  course  his  mother  was 
well  pleased  at  these  many  flattering  tokens  of  esteem, 
and  the  brilliant  prospects  which  she  fancied  were  open- 
ing before  him;  but  she  could  not  repress  a  feeling 
of  dreary  sadness  at  the  thought  of  giving  up  for  the 
future  the  companionship  of  her  only  son.  Yet  she 
tried  not  to  deepen  Floyd's  evident  melancholy,  which 
she  imagined  might  arise  from  a  similar  regret,  and  she 
spoke  of  it  cheerfully. 

"  Well,  dear,"  she  said,  addressing  her  niece,  "  your 
mother  will  have  to  let  you  be  my  little  girl  always  if 
Floyd  goes  away." 

Nannie,  who  had  been  watching  her  cousin  with  eager 
eyes,  said  timidly,  "  You  know,  aunty,  I  had  rather  be 
with  you  than  anywhere  else;  but  won't  Floyd  ever 
come  back  ?" 

"I  hope  he  will,  my  dear,  very  often,"  replied  Mrs. 
Southwold,  suppressing  a  sigh. 

When  the  young  girl  had  retired,  the  mother  and 
son  sat  long  talking  together,  but  Floyd  never  once 
alluded  to  the  subject  that  lay  nearest  his  heart.  He 
hoped  she  did  not  notice  his  depression  of  spirits,  and 
felt  a  morbid  reluctance  to  make  known  his  secret  des- 
pair to  any  one,  preferring  to  brood  over  it  in  silence. 


Southwold.  ill 

He  little  suspected  the  bitter  tears  which  his  fond  parent 
shed  when  she  was  alone  at  the  change  which  had  come 
over  her  darling  boy,  and  at  the  thought  that  he 
should  have  any  sorrow  which  he  either  would  not  or 
could  not  permit  her  to  share. 

Poor  lady !  this  was  but  the  first  sad  hour  which 
Floyd's  altered  appearance  and  strange  reserve  cost  her ; 
for  days  and  weeks  passed  on,  and  still  he  never  spoke 
of  the  disappointment  that  clouded  his  life,  until  Mrs. 
Southwold  often  thought  bitterly  that  he  had  far  bet- 
ter remained  in  his  peaceful  home,  to  struggle  on  as 
formerly,  than  be  the  heir  of  Southwold  at  the  loss 
of  all  his  light-heartedness.  He  was  as  unlike  his  former 
self  as  possible.  He  would  sit  for  hours  absorbed  in  sad 
reveries,  and  look  up  with  a  start  when  addressed. 
Even  his  favorite  books  had  lost  their  power  to  interest 
him ;  and  he  passed  much  of  his  time  in  long,  solitary 
rambles. 

On  these  walks  he  shunned  even  the  companionship 
of  Nannie.  It  was  piteous  to  see  the  sad,  disappointed 
look  that  would  come  over  her  sweet  face  when  she  had 
placed  herself  in  the  porch,  hat  in  hand,  in  the  hope  of 
his  asking  her  to  join  him,  and  he  passed  her  by  with- 
out noticing  her  wistful  expression. 

One  October  afternoon,  when  Floyd  had  been  in  Strat- 
ford some  six  weeks,  he  went  out,  directly  after  their 
early  dinner,  and  walked  on  through  the  woods,  where 
the  sunlight  glanced  daszlingly  on  the  now  golden 
leaves  of  the  tall  elms,  until  he  came,  after  a  weary 
ramble,  to  the  beach.  The  mellow  sunbeams  sparkled 
in  the  tiny  waves,  that  fell  with  a  low  whisper  on  the 
sands..  On  one  side  the  tall  lighthouse  rose  from  its 


1 1 2  Southwold. 

rocky  base  gaunt  against  the  sky.  Here  and  there  a 
white  sail  dotted  the  deep  azure  of  the  sea,  and  in  the 
far  distance  the  misty  shores  of  Long  Island  stretched 
in  a  dark  line  against  the  horizon.  There  was  nothing 
bold  or  striking  in  the  scene ;  but  it  was  one  Floyd 
loved  to  gaze  upon,  for  it  was  associated  with  many  of 
his  happiest  hours  since  infancy.  He  lay  looking  at  it 
with  a  feeling  of  utter  listlessness,  until,  lulled  by  the 
drowsy  murmurs  of  the  waters,  he  sank  to  sleep.  For 
many  nights  past  he  had  tossed  restlessly  through  the 
weary  hours,  unable  to  drive  away  the  sad  thoughts  that 
haunted  him,  and  now,  completely  worn  out,  he  slum- 
bered heavily. 

The  sun  went  down  in  a  glory  of  crimson  and  orange, 
but  its  splendors  faded  from  the  sky,  the  pale  stars  stole 
out  one  by  one,  the  twilight  darkened  over  the  earth, 
and  still  he  slept ;  already  the  damp  night  dews  began 
to  fall,  mingling  with  a  thick,  grey  mist,  that  crept  up 
from  the  sea,  enveloping  the  shore  and  the  rocks  in  its 
cold,  moist  cloud,  when  a  light  touch  on  the  shoulder 
roused  him,  and  he  heard  a  soft  voice  say — 

"  Cousin  Floyd,  you  had  better  wake  up  and  come 
home.  You  will  be  chilled  if  you  lie  here." 

It  seemed  that  his  absence,  unusually  prolonged,  had 
rendered  his  mother  exceedingly  uneasy,  and  Xannie 
had  volunteered  to  find  the  wanderer  and  bring  him 
home.  What  unerring  instinct  was  it  that  led  her  all 
those  three  tiresome  miles  to  where  he  slept  ? 

"  Why,  cousin !"  exclaimed  Floyd,  starting  up,  "  how 
came  you  here  ?" 

"  You  were  gone  so  long  I  thought  you  must  be  on 
the  beach,"  answered  Nannie ;  "  and  when  I  saw  you 


South  wold.  1 1 3 

asleep  I  was  afraid  you  would  be  made  ill  by  the  expo- 
sure." 

"  And  you  came  all  this  way  alone  ?  How  very  kind 
of  you  to  find  me,  dear  child,"  said  Floyd,  as  he  drew 
her  arm  within  his  own.  In  the  gathering  darkness  he 
did  not  see  the  blush  his  words  called  up,  neither  could 
he  know  how  happy  they  made  her. 

On  their  way  home  Floyd  talked  but  little,  but  what 
he  did  say  was  very  kind  ;  and  his  silence  arose  not  from 
moroseness,  but  from  contrition.  This  act  of  his  little 
cousin's  brought  to  his  mind  suddenly  all  the  anxiety 
which  his  frequent  absences  must  have  cost  both  her 
and  his  mother.  He  saw  how  selfish  and  cruel  had 
been  his  conduct  for  the  past  month,  and  determined  to 
make  all  the  atonement  in  his  power. 

That  night,  when  he  was  alone  with  his  mother,  Floyd 
told  her  all ;  how  he  had  wooed  that  beautiful  woman, 
and  how  he  had  staked  the  happiness  of  his  whole  life 
on  winning  her  love,  and  lost.  Mrs.  Southwold  listened 
with  a  sweet  sympathy  that  was  inexpressibly  comfort- 
ing to  his  wounded  heart.  But  although,  when  the 
story  was  ended,  she  was  greatly  relieved  to  find  that 
his  depression  sprang  from  no  unworthy  act  on  his  part, 
as  she  sometimes  had  horribly  suspected,  yet  she'  knew, 
as  what  parent  does  not,  when  either  a  son  or  a  daugh- 
ter finds  a  lover,  that  never  again  could  she  be  first  in 
her  child's  affections.  To  a  widow  this  thought  is  pecu- 
liarly painful,  and  no  wonder  Mrs.  Southwold  enter- 
tained no  very  kind  feelings  towards  the  woman  who 
had  robbed  her  of  her  son's  devotion,  and  brought  the 
first  cloud  that  had  ever  risen  between  them. 

From  this  time  she  was  unwearied  in  her  endeavors 


1 14  South  wold. 

to  win  him  from  his  sadness,  and  Floyd  was  so  affected 
by  her  patient  and  untiring  devotion  that,  for  her  sake, 
he  strove  to  be  always  cheerful.  At  first  it  was  a  great 
and  painful  effort,  but  after  a  while  he  became  less  poig- 
nantly wretched,  and  the  last  few  weeks  of  his  stay  at 
Stratford  were,  if  not  happy,  at  least  tranquil. 

When  he  had  been  there  some  two  months,  his  Uncle's 
letters  urging  him  to  return,  became  very  frequent  and 
pressing.  Floyd  could  not  bear  to  leave  his  peaceful 
home  and  go  back  to  the  scene  of  his  broken  dream, 
where  everything  reminded  him  of  his  disappointment, 
and  therefore  sought  one  pretext  after  another,  to  delay 
his  departure.  At  first  he  found  an  unanswerable  excuse 
in  the  absence  of  Xannie,  who  went  home  for  a  short 
time  to  visit  her  parents  and  obtain  their  permission  to 
remain  with  Mrs.  Southwold,  at  least  for  another  year. 
But  when  she  returned  with  a  letter  from  her  mother, 
giving  her  entirely  into  the  charge  of  "Kind  aunt 
Ellen,"  and  Mr.  Southwold  wrote  again  to  say,  that 
now  that  whiter  had  fairly  set  in,  he  must  absolutely 
insist  upon  the  return  of  his  nephew,  it  was  impossible 
for  Floyd  to  linger,  and  once  more  his  mother  was 
obliged  to  consent  to  his  leaving  her  for  an  indefinite 
period  of  absence. 

Had  she  possessed  the  power  of  the  fabled  Sybil  to 
foresee  all  that  was  to  pass  ere  they  met  again,  would 
she  have  bidden  him  Godspeed  with  a  cheery  heart  ?  or 
would  she  rather  have  clung  around  his  neck,  imploring 
him,  with  passionate  supplications,  never  again  to  dare 
the  fatal  atmosphere  of  Southwold  ? 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  The  iron  rod  of  penury  still  compels 
Her  wretched  slave  to  bow  the  knee  to  wealth." 

Queen  Mob. — SHELLEY. 

"  Even  love  and  hatred  respect  the  past,  for  the  cause  must  have 
been  before  the  effect." 

Rasselas. — DR.  JOHNSON. 

FKOM  the  moment  when  she  parted  from  Floyd  South- 
wold,  with  such  apparent  regr,et,  Medora  Fielding  had 
been  impatient  to  leave  Lazy-Bank.  She  missed  his  de- 
voted attentions  and  agreeable  society  more  than  she 
had  supposed  possible,  and  she  did  not  care  to  linger 
amid  the  ruins  of  the  chateau  en  Espagne  she  had  re- 
cently been  building.  Her  annoyance  at  this  disappoint- 
ment "was  excessive ;  all  the  greater,  because  she  had 
no  one  but  herself  to  blame  for  indulging  in  a  degree 
of  intimacy,  that  bordered  on  danger,  with  a  young 
man  who  was  entirely  ineligible.  Then,  too,  only  five 
months  yet  remained  before  the  period  fixed  upon  for 
the  return  of  Lascelles  and  his  wife.  This,  more  than 
anything  else,  made  her  anxious  to  leave  the  scene  of  a 
now  useless  conquest,  and  make  another  effort  in  a 
wider  field.  When,  therefore,  about  a  week  later  she 
took  up  the  paper  and  saw  among  the  arrivals  from  Eu- 
rope that  of  Mr.  Claude  Hamilton,  the  old  admirer  of 


1 1 6  Southwold. 

whom  Lascelles  had  professed  a  jealousy,  and  whom  she 
knew  to  be  a  man  of  large  and  established  fortune,  she 
hastened  her  arrangements  for  departure,  and  bidding 
her  kind  hostess  farewell  returned  to  New  York. 

It  was  very  trying  to  Medora  to  find  herself  once 
more  in  the  crampe.d  rooms  which  were  her  home,  with 
no  immediate  prospect  of  exchanging  them  for  a  hand- 
some establishment.  Her  mother,  who  had  been  spend- 
ing the  period  of  her  daughter's  absence  among  her  own 
relations,  was  as  much  provoked  as  Medora  herself  at 
the  poor  result  of  the  summer's  campaign,  and  reminded 
her  more  •  frequently  than  was  agreeable  that  this  was 
her  third  season.  Thus  a  thousand  causes  combined  to 
render  her  desperately  resolute  to  succeed  in  the  capture 
of  the  new  prize  that  she  had  selected. 

Oh !  deplorable  result  of  a  false  education,  that  a 
young  woman  of  Medora's  talents  and  resources,  should 
consider  that  any  circumstances  justified  her  in  stooping 
to  such  miserable  meanness ! 

It  seemed  that  this  conquest  was  not  destined  to 
be  very  difficult  of  accomplishment,  for  from  the  mo- 
ment of  her  return  Mr.  Hamilton  paid  her  the  most 
marked  attention.  Yet,  despite  all  her  resolves, 
Medora  sometimes  felt  sick  at  heart  when  she  contem- 
plated this  man,  and  thought  that  she  might  one  day 
have  to  call  him  Lord.  There  was  something  about  him 
intensely  repulsive  to  her,  for  although  possessed  of 
considerable  personal  beauty  he  was  cold  and  egotistic, 
very  rigid  in  his  ideas  of  propriety,  and  forcing  every 
one  who  came  in  contact  with  him  to  bend  to  his  imperi- 
ous will.  He  admired  her  simply  because  she  was 
acknowledged!  y  the  handsomest  woman  in  the  city. 


Southwold. 


117 


Regarding  himself— considering  everything,  birth, wealth, 
and  good  looks — as  the  most  desirable  young  man  in 
New  York,  he  was  determined  also  to  have  the  most 
desirable  wife — carefully  paying  his  attentions  only 
where  the  recipient  of  them  would  do  him  honor.  Never 
for  a  moment  doubting  that  any  lady  to  whom  he 
chose  to  extend  his  hand  would  thankfully  accept  it, 
he  resolved,  after  a  six  months'  trial  of  Medora,  in  case 
during  that  time  he  saw  no  reason  to  alter  his  opinions 
respecting  her,  graciously  to  espouse  her. 

With  ready  tact  she  speedily  discovered  that  the  only 
way  to  captivate  him  was  by  a  deference  and  submis- 
sion of  manner,  intensely  galling  to  her  proud  spirit. 
Often  after  one  of  his  visits,  which  were  sometimes 
tediously  long,  she  would  pace  up  and  down,  giving 
vent  in  passionate  words  to  her  indignation  at  his 
patronizing  familiarities,  only  consoling  herself  with  the 
thought  of  the  sweet  revenge  she  might  have  when  he 
was  once  fairly  within  her  power. 

In  this  state  of  half  slavery  the  time  rolled  on  until  it 
was  winter,  and  wanted  but  a  few  weeks  of  Christ- 
mas. One  night  Mr.  Hamilton  waited  on  Medora  to 
the  Opera.  She  sat  beside  him  feeling  as  she  always 
did  when  they  were  in  public  together,  as  if  she  was 
paraded  for  his  benefit,  and  looking  at  him  occasionally 
with  such  glances  as  the  captive  Zenobia  might  have 
bestowed  on  the  victorious  Aurelian  when  she  graced 
his  triumph. 

In  an  adjoining  box  to  theirs  sat  Miss  Murray,  dis- 
pensing her  smiles  among  a  group  of  admirers  with  the 
haughty  condescension  that  was  one  of  her  distinguish- 
ing characteristics.  After  watching  her  for  some  time 
Mr.  Hamilton  turned  to  Medora  and  said — 


il8  Southwold. 

"  Do  you  know  I  admire  Miss  Murray  vastly  ?  there 
is  something  so  queenly  about  her." 

"  She  is  certainly  handsome,"  answered  Medora, 
acquiescing  as  usual. 

"  So  handsome,"  continued  Mr.  Hamilton,  with  a  look 
intended  to  be  tender,  "  that  there  is  but  one  woman  in 
New  York  whom  I  prefer  to  her.  By  the  way,  do  you 
.think  she  really  was  engaged  to  that  young  Spaniard 
who  was  so  attentive  to  her  two  months  ago  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  presume  it  was  a  mere  flirtation." 

"I  do  not  like  even  that,"  observed  Mr.  Hamilton 
majestically.  "  When  I  marry  I  shall  select  a  woman  of 
whom  no  living  man  has  it  in  his  power  to  say  '  she  once 
loved  me.' " 

An  imperceptible  smile  flitted  across  Medora's  face, 
but  she  answered  softly  : 

"  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Hamilton,  that  she  who  is  so  fortunate 
as  to  win  you  will  bring  a  fresh  heart  to  one  so  well  able 
to  appreciate  it." 

Mr.  Hamilton  regarded  her  complacently,  suspecting 
no  hidden  sneer. 

After  all,  the  wisest  of  us  are  but  blind  fools  in  the 
hands  of  witty  women.  How  little  can  even  the  most 
penetrating  man  suspect  the  thoughts  that  are  surging 
under  the  placid  surface  of  a  fair  face !  Do  you  think 
that  when  your  wife  laughs  and  talks  with  you  so  gaily 
at  the  opera  she  is  intent  only  on  whiling  away  the 
entr'acte,  and  does  not  know  that  her  pretty  dimples 
and  white  teeth  are  enslaving  young  Lovelace  op- 
posite ? 

From  that  evening  Mr.  Hamilton  seemed  to  consider 
Medora  as  already  his  own,  treating  her  in  private  as  if 


South  wold.  1 1  g 

there  was  a  tacit  understanding  between  them,  and  in 
public  as  if  she  entirely  belonged  to  him.  This  was 
intensely  annoying  to  her,  as  while  he  really  was  not 
committed  by  any  direct  word,  the  rumor  was  con- 
stantly gaining  ground  among  her  friends,  that  she  was 
engaged  to  him.  Then,  too,  she  chafed  uneasily  under 
the  constant  watch  he  kept  upon  her  slightest  action,  as 
if  critically  observing  her,  to  see  if  in  all  respects  she 
fulfilled  his  views  of  what  the  future  Mrs.  Hamilton 
should  be.  Indeed,  it  was  often  very  difficult  for  her  to 
subdue  her  high  animal  spirits  down  to  the  staid  sobriety 
he  required. 

Her  irritation  at  his  conduct,  and  the  trying  position 
in  which  it  placed  her,  reached  its  climax  when  she  one 
day  heard  that  Mr.  Wentworth  had,  while  apparently 
in  his  usual  health,  been  struck  with  paralysis,  and  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lascelles  had  been  at  once  summoned 
home  and  were  expected  to  return  immediately. 

During  the  few  weeks  that  yet  elapsed  before  their 
arrival  she  summoned  all  her  fascinations  to  bring  affairs 
between  Mr.  Hamilton  and  herself  to  some  definite  con- 
clusion, but  nothing  that  she  could  do  either  by  adroit  flat- 
tery or  unwearied  complaisance  had  the  desired  effect. 
Not  that  he  was  so  indifferent  to  the  bewitching  charms 
of  his  beautiful  mistress,  as  not  to  give  her  that  selfish 
admiration  which  in  his  character  stood  for  love,  but  he 
had  his  own  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  become  engaged 
until  the  trial  months  were  passed ;  and  when  once  he 
had  taken  a  resolve,  not  the  goddess  of  passion  herself, 
when  armed  with  all  the  powers  of  her  cestus,  could 
have  induced  him  to  swerve  from  it.  S5  Medora  had 
the  mortification  of  finding  herself  still  in  the  same  inde- 


1 2o  Southwold. 

finite  position  when  the  steamer  arrived  that  brought 
Lascelles  and  his  young  wife  back  to  New  York. 

Notwithstanding  the  alarming  nature  of  his  seizure, 
Mr.  Wentworth  had  so  far  recovered  from  it  that  he  was 
able  to  meet  his  daughter  at  the  door  himself  with  assur- 
ances of  his  safety.  Yet  the  old  man's  perceptions  must 
have  been  somewhat  dimmed  by  his  recent  illness,  or  he 
would  have  noticed  that  after  the  first  rapture  of  meeting 
her  beloved  parent,  and  finding  him  so  much  better 
than  she  dared  hope,  had  passed  away,  there  was  a  sad 
look  of  despondency  on  Lucy's  sweet  face.  This  might 
be  in  a  measure  due  to  the  natural  apprehensiveness  with 
which  she,  in  common  with  every  woman,  must  look  for- 
ward to  that  trying  hour  which  precedes  the  joys  of  ma- 
ternity, but  this  scarcely  accounted  for  the  expression  of 
settled  despondency  and  disappointment  that  had  stolen 
half  the  charm  from  her  once  animated  features. 

With  the  dignity  of  a  true  woman,  she  endeavored 
to  conceal  the  secrets  of  her  married  life,  never  alluding 
to  the  long  lonely  hours  she  had  endured,  in  the  gay 
European  capital,  while  Lascelles  was  passing  his  time 
in  dissipations  disgraceful  to  any  man,  doubly  so  to  a 
young  husband  in  the  first  year  of  marriage.  Nor  did 
her  kind  father  ever  know  that  the  large  sums  of  money 
he  had  taken  such  delight  in  sending  her,  had  not  been 
spent,  as  he  fondly  fancied,  in  gratifying  her  own  deli- 
cate and  refined  tastes,  but  taken  thanklessly  and  squan- 
dered in  scenes  and  upon  companions  whose  very  names 
were  pollution. 

Yet  after  her  return,  despite  her  husband's  carelessness, 
Lucy  was  happier  than  she  had  been  since  the  first  weeks 
of  her  honeymoon,  before  he  tired  of  her  sweet  face  and 


South  wold.  1 2 1 

fond  devotion ;  for  she  had  no  longer,  in  addition  to  the 
secret  sorrow  of  knowing  that  her  intense  love  was  but 
poorly  requited,  the  wretched  feeling  of  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land.  She  was  once  more  with  her  kind 
father  in  her  own  home,  and  surrounded  by  familiar 
faces. 

Of  course,  all  her  friends  hastened  to  welcome  her 
back,  and  among  them  came  Medora.  Anxious  to 
know  how  that  first  year  of  marriage,  which  is  said  to  be 
the  test  of  all  the  rest,  had  passed  to  her  fortunate  rival, 
she  selected  an  early  hour  for  her  visit,  and  was  shown 
up-stairs  to  Mrs.  Lascelles'  boudoir. 

It  needed  but  a  glance  at  the  careworn  expression 
that  had  settled  on  that  sweet  face,  to  satisfy  her  that 
the  triumph  had  not  been  a  happy  one,  and  to  suggest 
the  involuntary  thought  that  perhaps  she  was  the  secret 
cause. 

Of  course  Medora  came  to  see  Lucy,  fully  prepared 
to  meet  her  husband  unflinchingly,  and  not  many  min- 
utes had  elapsed,  when  her  quick  ear  caught  a  footfall 
approaching,  whose  well  known  accents  made  her  heart 
beat  despite  her  resolves,  and  in  another  instant  Lascelles 
stood  before  her. 

Entering  abruptly,  and  supposing  his  wife  to  be  en- 
tirely alone,  the  shock  of  meeting  thus  the  only  woman 
he  had  ever  loved  was  too  much  for  his  self-possession. 
He  turned  pale,  and  paused  suddenly  in  the  doorway. 
Lucy  was  extremely  surprised  at  this  strange  conduct, 
and  looked  inquiringly  from  her  husband  to  Medora, 
who  betrayed  no  emotion  beyond  an  almost  impercepti- 
ble change  of  color.  After  an  embarrassing  pause,  she 
said,  timidly : 

6 


122  South  wold. 

"  Walter,  this  is  Miss  Fielding ;  I  thought  you  knew 
her." 

"  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Lascelles'  acquaint- 
ance, formerly,"  said  Medora,  with  a  soft  smile,  "  but  he 
is  quite  excusable  in  forgetting  me." 

By  this  time,  Lascelles  had  recovered  himself,  and 
came  forward,  with  a  muttered  curse  at  his  own 
awkwardness. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Fielding,  but  I  did  not 
expect  to  find  any  one  here.  Lucy  knows  that  I  think 
she  should  always  receive  her  visitors  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  not  give  them  the  trouble  of  coming  up- 
stairs," he  added,  indulging  a  habit  he  had  long  ago 
formed  of  blaming  his  wife,  whatever  occurred. 

Lucy  colored  violently,  at  the  thoughtless  harshness 
of  his  tone.  "  I  did  not  feel  well.  I  was  anxious  to 
see  Medora,"  she  faltered. 

Poor  girl!  She  would  so  have  liked  to  have  him 
show  her  some  of  the  tenderness  of  the  bridegroom  in 
the  presence  of  her  friend.  She  could  not  help  regard- 
ing Medora's  hasty  attempts  to  shield  her  from  censure, 
as  more  of  an  insult  than  a  comfort,  and  was  forced  to 
make  a  strong  effort  to  keep  back  her  tears. 

Unfortunately  for  herself,  Lucy  had  never  been  any- 
thing more  than  sweet-looking,  and  she  was  plainer  than 
usual  now  that  ill-health  had  robbed  her  of  her  former 
brilliancy  of  complexion,  and  that  from  a  partly  excusable 
negligence,  she  had  fallen  into  a  careless  habit  of  dress. 
The  contrast  between  her  and  Medora,  whose  cheeks 
were  glowing  and  eyes  sparkling  with  health,  while  her 
toilette  was  as  usual  unexceptionable,  was  very  great. 
No  wonder  that  it  struck  Lascelles.  But  that  was  no 


South  wold.  1 23 

excuse  for  his  openly-expressed  admiration  for  Medora, 
and  the  many  compliments  he  lavished  upon  her. 

Medora  was  not  ungenerous  enough  to  enjoy  this  flat- 
tery, though  she,  perhaps,  did  not  receive  it  quite  as  she 
might,  had  the  homage  not  come  from  a  man  whom  she 
once  loved,  and  been  paid  in  the  presence  of  a  successful 
rival.  As  soon,  however,  as  the  earliest  limits  of  a 
morning  call  were  reached,  she  rose  to  take  leave.  Las- 
celles  accompanied  her  down  stairs.  She  was  not  quite 
at  her  ease  in  this  unexpected  tete-d-tete,  and  in  order  to 
break  the  awkward  pause  which  followed  the  adieu, 
took  refuge  in  the  first  common-place  that  suggested 
itself. 

"  Of  course  you  enjoyed  Europe  vastly." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lascelles,  "  there  was  only  one  thing 
I  did  not  find  there." 

"  What  was  that  ?"  asked  Medora,  incautiously. 

"  Forgetfulmss  /" 

The  servant  stepped  forward  to  open  the  door  before 
Medora  could  reply,  but  it  needed  a  long  walk  through 
the  cold  air  to  smother  again  the  slumbering  fire  that 
word  had  rekindled. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"Elle  m'insulte  encor,  elle  ose,  la  cruelle! 
Non !  ma  rage  servit  du  triomphe  pour  elle." 

Jane  Gray. — MAD.  DE  STAEL. 

"  Remind  me  not,  remind  me  not ! 

Of  those  beloved,  those  vanished  hours, 
"When  all  my  soul  was  given  to  thee, 
Hours  that  may  never  be  forgot." 

BYRON. 

As  Mrs.  Lascelles  had  sailed  for  Europe  so  immedi- 
ately after  her  marriage,  as  to  give  her  friends  no 
opportunity  for  entertaining  her  as  a  bride,  her  return, 
taking  place,  as  it  did,  during  the  holidays,  was  the  sig- 
nal for  a  series  of  balls  and  parties  which  were  among 
the  most  brilliant  of  the  season. 

Lucy  would  have  preferred  to  make  her  situation  an 
excuse  for  declining  many  of  these  invitations,  but  her 
husband  insisted  upon  accepting  them  all,  as  he  was 
certain  of  meeting  Medora  at  most  of  those  gay  scenes, 
and  had  neither  the  wish  nor  the  power  to  deny  himself 
the  dangerous  pleasure  of  her  society.  Of  course, 
accustomed  as  she  was  to  implicit  obedience  to  all  his 
demands,  his  wife  never  refused  to  accompany  him, 
although  she  was  certain  that  after  entering  the  ball- 
room she  should  not  see  him  again,  except  as  hanging 


South  wold.  1 25 

about  Medora  with  an  admiration  he  did  not  attempt 
to  disguise. 

It  soon  became  impossible  for  Mrs.  Lascelles  to  close 
her  eyes  to  the  intimacy  between  them.  Deceive  herself 
as  she  might,  there  were  too  many  significant  circum- 
stances which  her  quick  perceptions  detected  to  allow 
her  to  suppose  that  her  husband's  attentions  were  acci- 
dental ;  although  Medora  endeavored  to  give  them  that 
appearance,  taking  a  mischievous  delight  in  obliging 
him  now  to  observe  all  the  rules  of  conduct  he  had  once 
laid  down,  to  prevent  suspicion  of  their  former  engage- 
ment. She  was  less  cautious,  however,  where  his  wife 
was  concerned ;  remembering  the  sufferings  she  had  once 
caused  her,  Medora  cruelly  determined  that  she  should 
drain  the  same  cup  of  bitterness,  forgetting  that  Lucy 
had  never  wilfully  wronged  her,  while  she  was  delibe- 
rately outraging  all  the  dearest  feelings  of  an  affectionate 
and  innocent  heart. 

As  for  Mr.  Hamilton,  he  watched  Medora's  conduct 
closely,  but  as  yet  had  discovered  nothing  which  could 
give  a  clue  to  it,  the  terrible  thought  that  Miss  Fielding 
would  indulge  in  a  flirtation  with  a  married  man  never 
once  crossing  his  brain. 

Thus  several  weeks  passed  away,  Lascelles  still  devot- 
ing himself,  so  far  as  she  would  permit  him,  to  Medora, 
and  daily  becoming  more  desirous  of  obtaining  from  her 
some  indication  that  her  former  preference  had  not  en- 
tirely ceased.  On  several  occasions  he  tried  to  obtain  a 
tvte-d-tete,  but  she  always  adroitly  baffled  him.  Once 
he  actually  went  so  far  as  to  venture  to  her  parlor  un- 
announced, but  to  his  vexation  he  found  Mrs.  Clarkson 
with  her,  and  the  two  ladies  made  him  feel  himself  so 


1 26  Southwold. 

evidently  de  trop  that  he  was  forced  to  beat  a  speedy 
retreat. 

Late  in  January  they  met  one  evening  at  a  small 
party,  Lascelles  engaged  Medora's  hand  for  an  after- 
supper  quadrille.  When  the  turn  for  their  dance  came, 
under  pretence  of  not  being  able  to  find  either  a  place 
or  a  vis-d-vis,  he  succeeded  in  inducing  her  to  leave  the 
ball-room  for  the  library.  There,  however,  they  found 
the  usual  number  of  wall-flower  young  ladies  and  diffi- 
dent young  men  engaged  in  looking  at  prints,  while  a 
solemn  silence  reigned  in  the  dreary  apartment,  broken 
only  by  an  occasional,  timid,  half-whispered  remark. 
The  scene  was  too  insufierably  inane  for  Medora's  en- 
durance, and  foreseeing  that  if  she  lingered  she  should 
inevitably  be  horribly  bored,  she  readily  agreed  to  Las- 
celles' proposition  that  they  should  enter  a  lovely  con- 
servatory, opening  out  from  one  of  the  windows.  Here, 
to  the  chagrin  of  her  companion,  they  found  several 
sentimental  couples  also  enjoying  the  subdued  hall-light 
and  the  graceful  flowers. 

Determining  not  to  be  disappointed,  and  fancying, 
with  blind  vanity,  that  there  was  a  more  tender  tone 
than  usual  in  Medora's  talk,  on  reaching  the  end  of  the 
building,  and  finding  that  there  was  no  one  in  sight, 
Lascelles  pushed  open  a  door  leading  into  the  yard, 
intending,  notwithstanding  that  it  was  a  very  cold 
night,  to  persuade  her  to  venture  out.  But  at  the 
first  icy  breath  that  swept  into  the  warm  and  per- 
fumed conservatory  she  dropped  her  hold  upon  his 
arm — 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Lascelles,  close  that  door ;  why,  the  air 
is  fearfully  chilly." 


South  wold.  127 

"  No,  no,"  urged  Lascelles,  softly,  "  come  outside  just 
for  a  moment,  it  is  splendid  moonlight." 

"Thank  you,  I  prefer  to  return  to  the  ball-room," 
replied  Medora,  with  dignity,  and  turning  she  rapidly 
retraced  her  steps.  Lascelles  followed  her  with  a  sup- 
pressed oath,  joining  her,  and  offering  his  arm  in  sullen 
silence. 

In  the  hall  they  met  Lucy,  who  had  noticed  that  her 
husband  was  not  dancing,  and  vaguely  hoping  that  he 
might  be  willing  to  go  home,  ventured  to  one  of  the 
doors  to  endeavor  to  attract  his  attention.  When  she 
saw  him  come  out  of  the  library  with  Medora  on  his 
arm  her  countenance  fell,  but  as  they  approached  she 
forced  a  faint  smile.  Her  husband,  after  regarding  her 
with  a  sidelong  glance,  would  have  passed  her  without 
a  word,  but  Medora  courteously  paused. 

"  Have  you  been  dancing  ?"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  replied  Lucy,  "  I  am  too  tired ;"  as  she  spoke 
she  timidly  touched  her  husband's  arm,  but  surprised, 
exclaimed,  "Why,  Walter,  how  cold  your  hands  are, 
where  have  you  been  ?" 

"  Only' in  the  library,"  he  answered  roughly,  shaking 
off  the  light  pressure. 

"You  have  forgotten,  Mr.  Lascelles,"  said  Medora, 
haughtily  indignant  at  the  falsehood,  "  we  were  in  the 
conservatory  when  the  door  was  open,  and  it  was  very 
cold." 

Lucy  colored  at  the  insinuated  reproof,  and  said  apo- 
logetically, as  her  husband  endeavored  to  pass  her — 

"  I  came  to  see  if  you  were  ready  to  go,  Walter." 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  he  replied,  impatiently.  "  Come, 
Miss  Fielding,  shall  we  continue  our  promenade  ?" 


1 28  Southwold. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Medora,  dropping  his  arm  ;  "but 
do  not  allow  me  to  detain  you,  I  was  about  to  leave 
myself.  Good-night,  Lucy." 

As  she  spoke  she  turned  off  to  join  Mrs.  Clarkson, 
who  was  passing,  and  did  not  see  the  utterly  wretched 
expression  on  poor  Lucy's  face,  neither  could  she  suspect 
the  cruel,  unkind  words  of  her  husband  on  their  home- 
ward drive,  or  all  the  demons  of  revenge  in  her  heart 
would  have  been  amply  satiated. 

After  that  evening  Lucy  positively  refused  to  go 
out  again ;  neither  commands  nor  even  the  threats  to 
which  Lascelles  was  vile  enough  to  descend,  had  the 
slightest  effect  upon  her.  She  never  complained,  never 
even  mentioned,  the  name  of  the  woman  whom  she  be- 
lieved to  have  stolen  his  affections,  only  with  mild  firm- 
ness insisted  upon  remaining  at  home.  Finding  at  last 
that  it  was  useless  to  endeavor  to  shake  her  resolution, 
her  husband  gave  up  the  attempt,  contenting  himself 
with  the  utter  neglect  of  either  her  convenience  or  her 
pleasure,  and  going  out  whenever  he  chose  without 
informing  her  of  his  intended  absence. 

Medora  had  succeeded  in  rendering  her  rival's  exist- 
ence very  unhappy ;  but  in  accomplishing  this  result  she 
herself  suffered  keenly.  The  conduct  of  Lascelles  to- 
wards her  had  so  far  opened  her  eyes  to  his  true  charac- 
ter that  she  now  saw  it  in  all  its  contemptible  deformity. 
But  although  she  knew  him  to  be  false,  selfish,  and  cruel, 
she  yet  lacked  the  right  principle  which  would  have 
enabled  her  utterly  to  despise  him ;  and  while  fully 
aware  of  his  unworthiness,  his  society  still  possessed 
somewhat  of  its  former  fascination.  Fortunately  she 
had  too  much  pride  and  dignity  to  permit  him  to  sus- 


Southwold.  1 29 

pect  this;  and  she  often  sincerely  wished  that  something 
might  occur  to  separate  her  from  his  influence.  Mean- 
time, LasceUes'  devoted  attentions  caused  her  to  regard 
the  idea  of  marrying  Mr.  Hamilton  with  constantly 
increasing  repugnance,  the  contrast  was  so  striking 
between  the  unconcealed  admiration  of  the  former  and 
the  cold  civilities  of  the  latter.  Thus  this  culpable 
coquetry  rendered  her  restless,  dissatisfied,  and  un- 
happy. 

Alas !  that  a  nature  originally  noble  should  have 
been,  by  a  false  education  and  the  force  of  circum- 
stances, so  perverted.  Had  Medora  been  reared  under 
the  tender  culture  of  a  judicious  and  faithful  mother, 
who  would  have  carefully  developed  all  the  best  quali- 
ties of  her  really  fine  character,  and  given  her,  above 
all,  that  steadfast  faith  and  deep  Religious  reverence 
which  must  be  the  foundation  of  all  true  excellence,  to 
what  great  good  might  have  been  turned  the  brilliant 
intellect  and  deep  passion  now  all-powerful  for  evil  and 
for  suffering! 

Even  as  it  was,  she  had  too  much  innate  modesty  and 
dignity  to  permit  the  possibility  of  her  intimacy  with 
Lascelles  going  beyond  the  shadowy  bounds  of  a  flirta- 
tion— improper,  indeed,  but  not  absolutely  criminal. 

Another  fortnight  elapsed,  and  the  season  was  at  its 
height,  although  there  were  several  weeks  of  gaiety  yet 
remaining,  as  Lent  fell  unusually  late  that  year.  Mr. 
Hamilton  still  continued  unwearied  in  his  attentions  to 
Medora,  watching  constantly,  with  lynx  eyes,  her  con- 
duct towards  her  old  lover.  Never  suspecting  this  sur- 
veillance had  any  deeper  object  than  usual,  she  observed 
the  same  line  of  conduct  as  before,  permitting  Lascelles 


1 30  Southwold. 

no  private  interviews,  but  always  allowing  him  to  mono- 
polize some  portion  of  her  time  in  public. 

One  morning  Mr.  Hamilton  waited  on  her  to  a  matinee 
musicale  at  the  house  of  a  mutual  friend.  As  he  had 
not  the  smallest  taste  for  music,  and  was  hopelessly 
unconscious  of  the  difference  even  between  a  polka  and 
an  oratorio,  at  the  commencement  of  an  exquisite  sym- 
phony he  stole  from  the  drawing-room  where  the  com- 
pany were  assembled,  and  lounged  into  the  library. 
Amid  the  rich  stores  of  books  around  him,  he  could  find 
nothing  more  interesting  than  the  morning  paper;  with 
this  he  retired  into  the  embrasure  of  a  bay-window,  and 
was  soon  deep  in  the  news  from  Europe  arid  the  state 
of  the  stock  market. 

He  had  not  quitted  Medora's  side  many  minutes  when 
Lascelles  arrived.  He  was  late,  because  he  had  left  home 
in  the  face  of  the  most  urgent  entreaties  of  his  wife,  who, 
alarmed  by  the  increasing  feebleness  of  her  father,  had 
broken  through  her  usual  rules  so  far  as  directly  to  tell 
him  that  she  thought  it  unseemly  that  he  should  be  at 
any  scene  of  gaiety  when  Mr.  Wentworth  was  in  so 
precarious  a  state  as  he  had  been  for  the  past  fort- 
night. 

On  arriving  at  the  house  all  this  wras  forgotten,  and  as 
the  music  had  commenced,  he  did  not  attempt  to  find 
the  hostess,  but  seeing  Medora  just  inside  the  door  of 
the  drawing-room,  seated  himself  beside  her,  and  began 
an  animated  conversation.  In  vain  she  endeavored  to 
check  his  volubility  by  signs ;  he  continually  uttered 
some  half  whispered  remark  which  necessarily  distracted 
attention  from  the  performances.  At  last,  seeing  that 
he  would  not  be  quiet,  she  rose  and  walked  rapidly, 


South  wold.  131 

with  raised  finger,  across  the  hall  to  the  door  of  the 
library. 

"  Mr.  Lascelles,  I  merely  came  here  to  remind  you  of 
what  you  seem  to  have  forgotten,  that  it  is  exceedingly 
rude  to  interrupt  music  by  talking." 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Mr.  Hamilton  looked  up 
from  his  paper,  but  the  remark  was  so  trivial  that  he  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  make  his  presence  known, 
although  they  evidently  had  not  observed  him.  Lascelles 
made  a  laughing  apology,  and  Medora  continued  : 

"  If  you  please,  we  will  return  to  the  drawing-room." 

"  No,  no !"  said  Lascelles,  speaking  in  quick  agitated 
accents,  "  now  that,  at  last,  I  have  you  alone,  you  must 
answer  one  question,  that  for  two  months  I  have  tried  in 
vain  to  ask  you :  may  I  hope  that  the  past  is  not  wholly 
forgotten,  and  that  you  still  love  me  ?" 

Medora  drew  herself  up  haughtily,  there  was  an  indig-  • 
nant  answer  on  her  lips,  but  the  words  died  away  unut- 
tered,  and  a  frightful  paleness  overspread  her  face,  as  she 
beheld  Mr.  Hamilton  advancing  across  the  room.  He  too 
was  very  pale,  though  he  spoke  in  tones  of  frigid  stateli- 
ness  : 

"  You  were  mistaken  in  supposing  yourselves  alone, 
and  the  answer  to  your  question,  Mr.  Lascelles,  should 
not  be  given  in  the  presence  of  a  third  person ;  Miss 
Fielding,  I  must  beg  you  to  excuse  me  from  my  attend- 
ance upon  you  this  morning.  I  have  no  doubt,  Mr.  Las- 
celles will  be  happy  to  take  my  place." 

He  passed  on  with  a  cold  bow,  neither  Medora  nor 
her  companion  making  any  attempt  to  detain  him. 

Lascelles  was  the  first  to  recover.  There  was  an  evil 
light  of  triumph  in  his  eye,  as  he  crept  to  Medora's  side 


j  32  Southwold. 

and  endeavored  to  take  her  hand.  This  act  aroused  her 
from  the  stupefaction  into  which  she  had  been  thrown 
by  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  and  the  knowledge 
of  what  would  be  the  inevitable  consequences  of  his  over- 
hearing those  mad  words.  She  started  from  the  contami- 
nation of  the  touch,  and  said  in  a  low,  determined  tone : 

"Walter  Lascelles,  you  know  me  weh1  enough  to 
understand  that  this  insult  will  not  pass  unresented — 
now  let  me  go !" 

She  returned  to  the  music-room,  and  saw  with  appar- 
ently unmoved  serenity  that  Mr.  Hamilton  had  seated 
himself  beside  Miss  Murray,  and  that  he  devoted  himself 
to  her  for  the  rest  of  the  morning  so  pointedly  as  to 
excite  general  remark.  She  felt  that  all  possibility  of 
replacing  herself  in  his  estimation  was  hopelessly  lost, 
and  thought  with  a  deep  sense  of  mortification  and 
indignation  of  the  untoward  events  of  the  morning. 
After  what  had  passed  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to 
meet  Lascelles  again,  except  with  the  most  distant 
acquaintance,  and  she  was  thus  released  from  his  dan- 
gerous intimacy,  as  well  as  Mr.  Hamilton's  odious  atten- 
tions. She  would  have  felt  an  absolute  sense  of  relief 
had  this  freedom  resulted  from  her  own  act.  As  it  was, 
however,  there  was  only  gall  and  bitterness  in  the 
thought  of  what  the  world  might  whisper. 

Lascelles  did  not  appear  again,  for,  while  he  was 
lingering  in  the  hall,  a  messenger  came  to  summon  him 
home  in  hot  haste.  Without  speaking  to  any  one,  he 
sprang  into  his  carriage  and  drove  rapidly  away ;  but  had 
his  horses  been  swift  as  those  fiery  steeds  that  drew 
Phaeton  to  his  destruction,  they  could  not  have  undone 
the  mischief  his  absence  had  caused. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"Juste  ciel!  un  homme  mort!  Helas!  il  ne  souffre  plus.  Son 
ame  est  paisable.  Tendre  et  malheureux  pere  I" 

Lucrece. — ROUSSEAU. 

"  Of  all  the  strokes  of  God's  hand,  that  which  carries  the  greatest 
awe  with  it,  is  death." 

Sermon  on  Death  of  Queen  Caroline. — ARCHBISHOP  SECCOR. 

WHEN  Lascelles  left  her  that  morning  to  go  to  the 
matinee,  Lucy  felt  more  than  usually  sad  and  forsaken. 
She  could  scarcely  restrain  her  tears  in  his  presence,  and 
when  she  was  alone  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
wept  bitterly. 

It  was  indeed  hard  to  be  so  entirely  neglected  by  that 
husband  who  only  ten  short  months  ago  had  sworn  to 
love  and  to  cherish  her.  In  this  cruel  trial  one  only 
consolation  kept  her  from  utter  despair,  and  this  was 
her  implicit  and  unfailing  trust  in  the  kindness  and 
mercy  of  the  benevolent  All-Father.  Happily  for  her, 
Lucy  had  known,  during  all  those  early  years  when  the 
character  is  forming,  the  tender  care  of  a  judicious 
mother.  This  excellent  lady  had  reared  her  daughter 
to  regard  the  Divine  Being  as  a  loving  as  well  as  a  just 
God,  and  in  all  the  sorrows  of  her  short  life  beginning 
with  the  first  great  grief  of  losing  that  devoted  parent, 
down  to  the  present  miserable  anguish  of  knowing  her- 


1 34.  Southwold. 

self  an  unloved  wife,  Lucy  had  found  unfailing  relief 
from  even  her  utmost  wretchedness  in  resting  in  simple 
faith  upon  the  kind  Providence  that  watches  with 
lenient  forbearance  over  this  erring  world. 

For  some  time  her  tears  flowed  unrestrainedly ;  then 
not  without  an  effort  she  checked  her  sobs,  and  taking 
up  some  tiny  article  of  dress  that  she  was  embroidering 
with  loving  care,  went  to  seek  her  father  whom  she  almost 
feared  to  leave  one  instant  alone,  so  great  had  been  the 
anxiety  which  his  bowed  form  and  sunken  eyes  had 
recently  caused  her.  She  found  him  in  the  library, 
buried  in  the  cushions  of  a  large  arm-chair  which  he  had 
drawn  quite  close  to  the  fire ;  a  sickly  gleam  of  the  pale 
winter  sunlight  played  unnoticed  on  his  silvery  locks 
and  closed  lids,  rendering  the  pallor  of  his  cheeks  even 
more  ghastly  with  its  yellow  glare.  Evidently  he  had 
fallen  asleep,  and  Lucy,  after  listening  for  a  few  mo- 
ments to  his  labored  and  heavy  breathing,  becoming 
convinced  that  such  feverish  slumber  was  of  no  benefit, 
approached  the  old  man  and  gently  roused  him. 

Mr.  Wentworth  opened  his  dull  eyes,  and  regarded 
his  daughter  vacantly  for  an  instant ;  then  his  thoughts 
wandered  away  from  the  present  back  over  the  dead 
past  to  the  happy  years  of  his  early  married  life,  when 
the  smiles  of  his  young  wife  were  his  sweet  reward  in  the 
few  hours  he  could  steal  from  his  close  attention  to  busi- 
ness. His  lips  trembled,  and  he  said  tenderly — 

"  Have  I  slept  too  long,  Mary  ?» 

Although  much  alarmed,  his  daughter  answered 
soothingly — 

"  It  is  not  mamma,  it  is  Lucy,  dear  papa ;  don't  you 
know  me  ?" 


South  wold.  135 

The  old  mail  raised  himself  half  upright,  and  looked 
at  her  with  an  earnest  gaze,  then  his  face  darkened,  and 
he  said  in  tones  of  inexpressible  sadness — 

"  Yes,  yes !  I  had  forgotten  all  the  weary  years  since 
your  mother  died ;  I  see  now  it  is  my  poor,  poor  Lucy ; 
you  are  ill,  you  have  been  weeping,  and  very  soon  I  too 
shall  be  gone !" 

"  Dont't  say  so,  please,  father,"  faltered  Lucy. 

"  My  dear  child,"  continued  Mr.  Wentworth,  with  a 
look  of  clearer  intelligence  than  his  daughter  had  met 
since  her  return,  "  I  am  an  old  man,  I  cannot  linger 
long,  but  it  is  very  hard  for  me  to  leave  you  now  when 
you  need  me  so  much.  You  have  struggled  bravely  to 
conceal  from  me  your  unhappiness,  but  my  eyes  are  not 
so  dimmed  with  age  and  suffering  that  I  have  not  seen 
it." 

"  You  are  so  kind,  papa,  that  you  think  me  sad  when 
I  am  only  not  well,"  interrupted  Lucy,  hurriedly. 

"  No,  my  darling  !  it  is  not  that — there  would  not  be 
one  cloud  upon  your  brow,  if  the  man  whom  you  have 
married  were  what  he  should  be — but  no,  he  is  a  false 
and  cruel  husband."  As  he  uttered  these  words  he 
started  upright,  and,  not  heeding  Lucy's  entreaties,  went 
on  wildly  :  "  Yes,  false  and  cruel !  Oh  !  it  cuts  me  to 
the  very  heart,  and  has  rendered  my  last  days  wretched, 
to  see  the  gentle  daughter  whom  I  have  cherished  so 
fondly  a  slave  to  the  caprices  of  one  so  worthless.  God 
only  knows  what  will  become  of  her,  when  I  am  gone. 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  her  suffer  so ;  no,  it  kills  me,  it  kills 
me !" 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  an  inarticulate  murmur 
that  stopped  short  in  a  higsing  rattle  as  he  feh1  back 


136  South  wold. 

heavily  in  his  chair.  His  arms  hung  rigid  by  his  side, — 
a  livid  pallor  overspread  his  face,  the  features  fearfully 
distorted  into  a  horrible  burlesque  of  humanity  that 
told  that  paralysis,  in  all  its  hideous  deformity,  had  done 
its  fatal  work. 

Lucy,  who  had  watched  him,  absolutely  petrified  with 
horror,  had  just  strength  to  rush  to  the  bell  and  summon 
the  household  with  a  frantic  peal  before  she  fell  fainting. 

When  the  message  reached  Lascelles  that  called  him 
from  a  scene  of  pleasure  to  his  distracted  home,  coming, 
as  it  did,  just  after  the  avowal  of  a  guilty  passion,  he 
was  struck  with  terror  at  what  seemed  to  him  the  conse- 
quences of  his  disregard  of  his  wife's  entreaties,  and 
when  he  entered  the  house,  he  was  so  utterly  unmanned 
by  the  shock  as  to  be  entirely  incapable,  of  directing 
what  should  be  done  in  this  emergency. 

The  servants  had  brought  a  physician,  who,  finding  it 
too  late  to  be  of  assistance  to  the  father,  had  given  all 
his  attention  to  the  daughter,  and  had  succeeded  in  par- 
tially recovering  her  from  the  swoon.  On  the  arrival 
of  Lascelles,  he  was  conducted  at  once  to  his  wife's 
chamber.  On  entering  the  darkened  room  and  hasten- 
ing with  trembling  steps  to  the  couch  where  she  lay 
with  closed  eyes,  so  white  and  still,  at  first  he  thought 
he  had  killed  her  also,  and  flung  himself  down  beside 
her  with  a  wild  cry  of  horror.  At  that  sound  Lucy 
half  raised  her  drooping  lids,  looked  fearfully  at  her 
husband,  and  then,  with  a  despairing  sigh,  sank  back 
upon  her  pillow. 

"  Oh  !  Lucy,"  exclaimed  Lascelles,  "  only  look  at  me 
once  more,  and  say  that  you  forgive  me  !" 

These  words  aroused  the  physician,  who  had  retired 


Southwold.  137 

to  an  adjoining  apartment,  and  he  hurried  forward,  say- 
ing in  a  half  whisper — 

"  Mr.  Lascelles,  you  must  not  talk  to  your  wife.  The 
most  entire  quiet  is  absolutely  necessary,  and  any  agita- 
tion will  be  exceedingly  injurious  and  perhaps  fatal !" 
Then  seeing  that  the  young  man  made  no  effort  at 
calmness,  he  added  firmly :  ;'  I  must  insist,  sir,  that  you 
leave  the  room  until  you  are  somewhat  more  composed." 

Left  alone,  and  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  Lascel- 
les wandered  down  stairs  and  into  the  library.  The 
gathering  twilight  filled  it  with  silent  gloom,  and  he  had 
crossed  it  nearly  to  the  fire  before  he  discovered  the 
lifeless  form  that  still  remained  neglected  where  it  had 
fallen.  He  paused  frozen  with  fear,  and  gazed  for  a 
moment  spell-bound  at  the  ghastly  spectacle.  The  red 
glow  of  the  flames  fell  full  upon  the  drooping  head  and 
bent  figure,  crimsoning  the  snowy  hair  and  distorted 
face,  and  playing  in  weird  gleams  on  the  hands  con- 
tracted with  the  pang  of  mortal  agony. 

At  last  he  tore  himself  from  the  fearful  fascination, 
and  rushed  from  the  room.  Then  feeling  utterly  help- 
less, and  wholly  unequal  to  the  exigencies  of  the  occa- 
sion, what  little  self-control  he  had  retained  vanished, 
and  he  gave  way  to  a  flood  of  useless  and  unavailing 
tears,  that  sprang  not  from  any  tender  remorse  at  his 
past  conduct,  but  from  a  cowardly  dread  of  the  present 
and  the  future. 

It  were  hard  to  say  which  was  the  most  piteous  sight, 
— the  cowed  and  dastardly  man, — the  poor  stricken 
young  girl, — or  the  loathsome  corpse ! 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  Love's  a  chameleon,  and  would  live  on  air." 

Aglaura. — SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING. 

"  "When  mid'  the  gay,  I  meet 

That  gentle  smile  of  thine ; 
Though  still  on  me  it  turns  most  sweet, 
I  cannot  call  it  mine." 

MOORE'S  MELODIES. 

THE  long  months  of  winter  had  dragged  wearily  to 
Floyd  in  the  retirement  of  Southwold,  where  there  was 
nothing  to  distract  his  thoughts  from  his  secret  sorrow. 
In  vain  had  he  sought  to  banish  the  recollection  of  his 
hopeless  passion ;  still  the  remembrance  of  that  bewitch- 
ing loveliness  haunted  him  as  persistently  as  the  shade 
of  the  lost  Ludra  pursued  her  innocent  lover,  until 
they  were  united  for  ever  in  the  same  eternal  despair. 

When  the  snows  of  January  had  clothed  the  hills  in 
white  robes,  and  the  rolling  waters  of  the  Hudson  were 
enchained  in  fetters  of  frost,  the  short  days  and  long 
quiet  evenings  made  Mr.  Southwold  long  for  more 
society  than  the  country  at  that  season  afforded,  and  he 
suggested  to  his  nephew  that  they  should  go  to  town 
for  a  few  weeks.  This  proposition  was  received  by 
Floyd  with  an  irrepressible  bound  of  delight.  Even 
while  smiling  at  his  own  folly  he  could  not  help  rejoic- 


Southwold.  1 39 

ing  in  the  prospect  of  again  meeting  Medora,  and  began 
his  preparations  for  departure  with  an  alacrity  he  had 
not  displayed  in  any  occupation,  since  that  day  when  he 
rode  so  sadly  away  from  Lazy-Bank. 

It  was  a  clear,  bright  morning,  late  in  February,  when 
they  took  the  cars  for  New  York.  The  sky  pale  blue, 
with  tufts  of  fleecy  clouds  floating  in  its  transparent 
depths — the  air  wonderfully  pure  and  glittering.  Floyd 
enjoyed  the  ride  keenly,  looking  out  on  the  dazzling 
sheets  of  ice,  where  gay  parties  of  skaters  were  disport- 
ing themselves,  sometimes  a  group  of  rosy-cheeked 
ladies  skimming  gracefully  down  the  frozen  stream,  then 
a  knot  of  boys  sprawling  awkwardly  in  their  first 
attempts  on  iron  shoes.  The  hills  were  thickly  covered 
on  their  tops  with  snow,  while  on  their  rugged  sides 
great  brown  patches  appeared  through  the  surrounding 
whiteness,  like  huge  plum-cakes  badly  iced,  suggestive 
of  the  departed  glories  of  Christmas  and  New  Year's. 

On  their  arrival  in  town,  they  took  up  their  quarters 
in  the  very  comfortable  hotel  that  Mr.  Southwold  had 
for  years  patronized  as  his  city  home,  and  from  the  num- 
ber of  cards  speedily  left  for  them,  it  was  evident  that 
they  were  likely  to  have  their  share  of  invitations  to  the 
various  parties  which  were  more  numerous  as  the  winter 
approached  Lent. 

The  sudden  death  of  Mr.  Wentworth,  although  it  took 
place  in  the  middle  of  the  gay  season,  and  was  followed 
by  the  dangerous  illness  of  his  daughter,  cast  but  a  pass- 
ing gloom  on  the  circle  of  their  friends  and  acquaintances, 
although  he  had  stood  high  in  the  community  as  a  man 
of  sterling  worth.  The  funeral,  which  was  attended  by 
many  of  those  most  prominent  in  wealth  and  position 


140  South  wold. 

had  scarcely  passed,  with  its  sad  freight  and  solemn  train, 
than  it  was  forgotten,  and  the  business  and  amusements 
of  the  great  world  went  on  as  before. 

Oh!  infatuated  folly  of  humanity!  although,  in  this 
awful  mystery  of  life,  there  is  nothing  certain  but  death, 
the  warnings  that  every  day  toll  around  us,  are  so  utterly 
disregarded,  that  while  we  are  constantly  walking  over 
graves  and  the  whole  world  is  one  vast  charnel-house, 
we  still  dance  merrily  and  laugh  carelessly,  giving  but  a 
passing  attention  to  that  shadowy  future  whose  momen- 
tous interests  should  absorb  every  thought  of  this  brief 
existence.  Not  only  is  all  contemplation  of  the  blessing 
or  curse  of  death  postponed  till  the  shadow  of  Azrael's 
wing  is  darkening  over  the  doomed  head,  but  even  the 
great  boon  of  life  itself  is  never  appreciated  in  its  full  and 
overwhelming  importance.  How  many  a  man  is  born, 
and  exists  his  allotted  time,  without  ever  having  really 
lived.  Until  he  arrives  at  maturity  he  is  incapable  of 
appreciating  happiness  in  its  highest  degree,  and  by  an 
imperative  law  of  nature  he  is  forced  to  spend  at  least 
one  fourth  of  the  passing  hours  in  sleep ;  yet  the  few 
fleeting  moments  when  he  enjoys  the  full  possession  of 
his  faculties,  and  which  should  be  so  precious  as  to  be  as 
carefully  spent  as  a  miser's  hoarded  gains,  are  wasted  in 
the  most  absolute  trifling,  and  he  sinks  at  last  to  oblivion, 
never  having  even  reached  to  that  knowledge  which 
Terence  advises  the  suicide  to  acquire  ; 

"  Prius  quseso  disce  quid  fit  vivere 
Ubi  scies  si  desplicebat  vita  turn  istoc  utitor." 

Mr.  Wentworth  left  no  will,  and  of  course  Lascelles 
became  possessed,  in  right  of  his  wife,  of  the  whole  of  his 


South  wold.  141 

large  fortune,  yet  it  seemed  at  first  that  his  tenure  was 
likely  to  be  but  a  brief  one.  For  days  Lucy's  life  hung  by 
a  thread,  and  his  anxious  solicitude  was  so  great  that  it 
banished  every  other  thought  save  the  all-absorbing 
passion  for  Medora.  Yet  it  sprang  far  less  from  a  loving 
fear  of  losing  that  gentle  and  devoted  wife,  than  from  a 
dread  lest  the  wealth  for  which  he  had  bartered  even 
honor  and  loyalty,  should  yet  escape  him.  The  joy  with 
which  he  received  the  announcement  of  the  birth  of  a 
daughter,  and  that  both  mother  and  child  were  in  no 
immediate  danger,  sprang  far  more  from  the  added 
security  that  the  infant's  life  brought  with  it,  than  from 
the  pure  delight  with  which  a  father  hails  his  first-born. 

From  this  time  he  resumed  in  a  measure  his  ordinary 
habits,  although  common  propriety  obliged  him  to  remain 
secluded  for  a  period.  He  soon  came  to  regard  his  wife's 
illness  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  scarcely  troubled  himself 
concerning  her  welfare,  sometimes  forgetting  for  a  whole 
day  to  pay  so  much  as  a  hurried  visit  to  her  sick  room. 

Poor  Lucy,  who  had  so  long  fondly  hoped  that  when 
there  was  between  herself  and  her  husband  the  sweet  tie 
of  another  life,  he  would  surely  love  her  a  little,  felt  his 
neglect  so  deeply  that  it  greatly  retarded  her  recovery. 
The  hours  dragged  wearily  in  her  darkened  chamber  ;  ill 
and  suffering,  she  thought  sadly  of  her  future,  and 
except  for  the  sake  of  her  innocent  child,  she  would  wil- 
lingly have  closed  her  eyes  in  the  peaceful  rest  of  an 
everlasting  sleep. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  some  consolation  to  Las- 
celles,  in  his  enforced  absence,  could  he  have  known  how 
much,  notwithstanding  her  resolves,  Medora  missed  his 
attentions,  and  how  insipid  all  gaiety  now  seemed.  Still, 


142  South  wold. 

she  trod  the  same  weary  round  of  pleasure  that  was  but 
a  mockery  of  the  name,  and  dissipations  that  were  but 
fatigue.  Xot  that  the  subtle  incense  of  the  homage 
her  beauty  commanded  had  ceased,  but  that  this  flattery, 
now  that  the  charm  of  its  first  freshness  had  worn  away, 
simply  bored  her,  and  having  too  much  intellect  to  be 
satisfied  with  the  mere  frivolities  of  society,  she  was 
restless  and  miserable  when  her  triumphs  were  without 
the  excitement  of  an  object. 

The  principal  reason  that  impelled  her  to  this  tread- 
mill life  was  that  Mr.  Hamilton  had  openly  transferred 
his  addresses  to  Miss  Murray,  meeting  Medora  only  with 
cold  civility,  whom,  it  was  more  than  whispered,  he 
had  jilted.  Xothing  could  be  imagined  more  galling  to  a 
proud  spirit  than  such  a  story,  and  no  wonder  she  did 
all  in  her  power  to  contradict  it — even  stooping  to  an 
insinuation  that  she  had  refused  him.  Her  knowledge 
of  the  world  warned  her  that  the  only  means  of  retriev- 
ing her  tarnished  eclat  was  by  at  once  consummating 
some  new  engagement,  and  before  the  laurels  of  her 
former  conquests  were  entirely  withered,  exchanging 
them  for  an  orange  wreath. 

One  morning,  shortly  after  she  had  arrived  at  this  con- 
clusion, she  went  to  see  Mrs.  Clarkson,  to  aid  her  in  her 
preparations  for  her  grand  annual  ball  which  was  about 
to  come  off.  She  was  greeted  by  her,  with — 

"  Guess  who  is  in  town  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  cannot  imagine." 

"An  old  admirer  of  yours.'' 

"  Indeed,"  said  Medora,  with  animation.  "  Who  can 
it  be  ?»' 

"  Somebody  whose  name  begins  with  F." 


South  wold.  1 43 

"  You  surely  do  not  mean  that  tiresome  Lieut.  Fair- 
child  ?" 

"  Fairchild  ?  *  Who  was  he  ?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  that  absurd  navy  officer 
that  we  met  at  Newport  two  seasons  ago  ? 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  came  to  town  the  same  day  we  did,  and 
sat  on  my  dress  all  the  way  in  the  cars ;  horrid  man !  he 
absolutely  ruined  it.  What  wonderful  adventures,  ac- 
cording to  his  own  account,  he  had  met  with." 

"  Ridiculous  !  I  do  not  believe  that  any  of  them  really 
occurred.  Do  you  recollect  that  story  of  his  about  the 
nun  whom  he  met  in  New  Orleans,  and  who  fell  so  in 
love  with  him  ?  He  said  she  had  never  met  a  man  before, 
except  one  hideously  old  priest ;  that  might,  it  is  true, 
account  for  her  infatuation  in  selecting  such  a  person 
upon  whom  to  bestow  her  affections,  but  was  certainly 
scarcely  credible." 

"  Why  not  ?' 

"Why,  do  you  suppose  she  could  have  made  that 
long  journey  without  even  beholding  one  of  the  ship's 
company,  or  any  other  •chance  specimen  of  the  lords  of 
creation  ?" 

"  Of  course,  I  did  not  think  of  that.  But  he  always 
talked  with  the  air  of  himself  believing  what  he  said, 
and  was  indignant  if  any  one  looked  doubting." 

"Oh!  I  have  no  doubt  there  was  some  foundation 
for  all  his  fabrications,  only  he  exaggerated  to  excite 
wonder  and  admiration.  That  sort  of  vain-glorious 
boasting  is  something  I  have  no  patience  with,"  added 
Medora,  earnestly.  "  A  downright  lie  that  attains  some 
object,  or  excuses  some  fault,  I  can  forgive,  but  not 
such  uninteresting  absurdities  which  one  is  obliged  to 


1 44  South  wold. 

look  as  if  one  was  fool  enough  to  believe,  while  in 
one's  secret  heart  one  heartily  despises  such  a  trans- 
parent shift  of  a  petty  mind  to  obtain  a  little  passing 
notice." 

"You  are  quite  didactic,  I  declare,"  cried  Mrs.  Clark- 
son,  laughing,  "  and  meanwhile  you  are  forgetting  all 
about  your  poor  adorer." 

"  So  I  am.  Now  do  not  be  a  tease,  but  tell  me  at 
once,  who  is  it  ?" 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  dare  to  be  a  tease  as  you  say,  if 
my  punishment  is  to  be  having  such  a  sermon  as  that 
hurled  at  my  inoffensive  head.  It  is  Floyd  Southwold." 

Medora  started  with  delight.  "  Mfchant,  you 
said  F." 

"  Well,  does  not  Floyd  begin  with  F.  ?  or  would  you 
prefer  to  spell  it  with  a  Ph  ?  He  is  with  his  uncle  at 
the  Burleigh,  and  you  may  address  them  this  card,  that 
is  if  your  ideas  are  sufficiently  clear  on  the  subject  of  the 
orthography  of  his  name." 

So  Medora  sent  the  invitation,  and  Floyd  joyfully 
accepted  it,  dressing  himself  with  elaborate  care  for 
a  ball  at  which  he  was  almost  certain  of  meeting  again 
that  fair  girl  whom  he  yet  so  deeply  loved,  and  going  a 
little  early  in  the  vague  hope  that  she  might  be  there 
before  the  rest  of  the  guests.  In  this,  however,  he  was 
disappointed,  and  being  an  almost  entire  stranger,  he 
stationed  himself  near  one  of  the  doors  to  watch  for  her 
arrival.  He  had  not  stood  there  many  minutes  when 
he  heard  that  name  which  was  sacred  in  his  eyes, 
lightly  pronounced  by  a  young  man  near  him. 

"  Medora  Fielding  ?  Yes,  she's  certainly  handsome. 
I  wonder  if  Hamilton  really  jilted  her  as  they  say." 


South  wold.  145 

Floyd  crimsoned  with  indignation  at  the  words  and 
tone,  and  turned  suddenly  upon  his  astonished  neigh- 
bor. 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  have  the  honor  to  be  a  friend  of 
Miss  Fielding's,  and  I  must  beg  of  you  to  speak  of  her 
with  more  respect,  at  least  in  my  presence." 

The  person  who  had  uttered  the  obnoxious  words, 
seeing  that  Floyd  really  was  annoyed  and  pained, 
hastened  to  explain. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  most  certainly,  of  course.  I  had  no 
idea  that  you  took  an  interest  in  the  young  lady.  I 
merely  repeated  common  report." 

There  was  no  possibility  of  taking  further  offence, 
and  although  Floyd  would  have  liked  to  have  had  an 
excuse  for  severely  resenting  his  impertinence,  he  was 
obliged  to  accept  the  apology.  As  he  stood  half-hesi- 
tating, he  heard  a  voice  pronounce  his  name  that  made 
him  turn  with  a  sudden  start,  and  behold,  she  whose 
cause  he  had  just  maintained,  stood  beside  him.  Little 
could  he  guess  how  ill  she  deserved  his  championship, 
when  he  gazed  on  the  glorious  eyes,  and  the  golden 
hair  of  which  he  had  so  often  dreamed.  His  heart 
throbbed  with  yearning  tenderness  towards  her,  and  he 
longed  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  and  fly  with  her  far 
from  all  the  cavillers  of  this  censorious  world. 

She  had  seen  him  on  her  first  entrance,  and  after 
watching  for  a  moment  with  an  earnest  look,  his 
graceful  figure  and  animated  features,  she  dexterously 
approached  him.  She  now  held  out  her  hand  with  a 
frank  smile,  saying : 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again." 

At  these  words,  he  would  willingly  have  knelt  to 
7 


146  Southwold. 

thank  her  for  the  happiness  of  knowing  that  she  cared 
to  meet  him  once  more,  never  thinking,  in  his  simple 
honesty,  that  had  she  really  rejoiced,  with  the  trembling 
timidity  of  a  loving  woman,  she  would  not  have  so 
openly  expressed  it. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  waltzing  with  her,  and 
yielding  himself  wholly  to  the  intoxication  of  the 
moment.  Nor  had  his  uncle's  whispered  "Beware!" 
the  slightest  effect  to  tear  him  from  the  side  of  that 
beautiful  belle,  who  once  more  held  him  a  willing 
captive  in  her  rosy  chains.  He  would  not  permit  him- 
self during  that  bright  evening  to  have  one  thought  of 
the  future,  revelling  only  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  pre- 
sent. It  was  such  delight  to  be  writh  her  again,  to 
drink  in  her  loveliness,  and  listen  to  the  soft  tones  of  her 
musical  voice. 

Before  they  parted  he  had  made  an  engagement  with 
her  for  the  following  morning,  so  that  he  could  look 
forward  to  anticipated  pleasure  as  well  as  think  of  past 
delights.  He  could  scarcely  sleep  for  the  rapturous  joy 
of  his  heart,  and  when  at  last  he  did  close  his  eyes  it 
was  only  to  dream  intoxicatingly  of  his  fair  ladye-love. 

Medora,  too,  lay  awake  long  hours  thinking  of  the 
future — not  with  the  excitement  of  passion,  but  with 
the  calm  calculation  of  the  schooled  wToman  of  the 
world.  That  evening  she  had  met  a  man  who  she 
knew  loved  her  fondly,  and  for  whose  many  noble  qua- 
lities she  had  a  sincere  admiration.  In  every  respect 
he  was  exactly  what  she  wished,  young,  ardent,  and 
above  all,  as  she  believed,  pliant  as  wax  in  her  hands. 
He  lacked  only  fortune.  But  of  this  the  world  was 
ignorant,  she  alone  knew  his  precise  situation.  At  pre- 


Southwold.  14.7 

sent  her  affairs  wore  a  dark  aspect.  Was  it  not  far  bet- 
ter to  marry  this  young  man,  with  whom  she  had  every 
reasonable  prospect  of  happiness,  than  to  continue  the 
wretched  life  she  had  led  this  past  winter  ?  One  only 
obstacle  stood  between  him  and  wealth — was  that  suffi- 
cient cause  for  despairing  ?  Assuredly  not.  As  she 
reached  this  conclusion  she  smiled  to  herself  in  the 
darkness,  with  an  expression  as  impenetrable  as  the 
gloom  around  her. 

Of  course,  after  such  a  vigil,  she  rose  late  the  next 
morning,  and  had  but  just  completed  her  toilette  when 
Floyd  arrived.  They  lingered  some  time  in  the  little 
parlor,  but  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Fielding  effectually 
prevented  a  ttte-d-tvte,  and  at  last,  as  the  day  was  fine, 
Medora  donned  her  soft  furs  and  bewitching  hat,  and 
they  went  out  for  a  walk. 

They  had  not  strolled  far  when  Floyd,  who,  with  lov- 
ing eyes,  watched  every  motion  of  his  companion,  saw 
her  lip  curl  into  a  singular  smile  fs  she  bent,  almost 
imperceptibly,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  ceremonious 
salutation  of  a  tall  and  handsome  man,  who  passed  with 
Miss  Murray  leaning  on  his  arm.  Floyd  scarcely  needed 
to  ask —  • 

"  Who  was  that  ?"  He  guessed  the  name  before  it 
came,  with  sudden  sharpness — 

"  Mr.  Hamilton." 

But  he  was  at  fault  when  a  few  moments  afterwards 
a  black  coach,  with  driver  and  footmen  all  in  the  deep- 
est mourning,  passed,  and  Medora  colored  deeply  as  she 
responded  to  the  eager  bow  of  the  young  man  who  was 
its  sole  occupant. 

"I  hope  I  am   not   troublesome,"   said  Floyd  with 


1 48  Southwold. 

jealous  curiosity,  "  you  know  I  am  such  a  stranger ! 
but  may  I  ask  who  that  was  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Lascelles,"  answered  Medora,  as  carelessly  as 
she  could,  "  he  has  recently  lost  his  father-in  law." 

"Ah!"  said  Floyd,  suddenly  relieved  to  find  him  a 
married  man,  "  I  should  not  have  remembered  him.  He 
looks  to  me  much  changed  since  I  saw  him  on  his  mar- 
riage. " 

"How  so?" 

"  He  has  a  haggard,  dissipated  look,  but  perhaps  it  is 
only  the  black  dress." 

"  Probably,"  said  Medora  shortly,  and  the  conversa- 
tion dropped.  Still  Floyd  could  not  help  puzzling  a 
little  to  account  for  his  companion's  change  of  color 
at  the  passing  look  of  those  sinister  eyes. 

It  was  so  natural  for  him  to  fall  into  his  old  habits  of 
intimacy  with  Medora,  and  they  met  so  frequently 
during  the  carnival  week,  that  Floyd  was  unable  to 
resist  the  temptation,  especially  as  after  that  first  eve- 
ning, his  uncle  never,  either  by  word  or  look,  expressed 
any  disapproval  of  it.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  almost 
as  frequently  seen  in  the  circle  around  Miss  Fielding  as 
Floyd  himself,  watching  her  with  a  close  attention  and 
untiring  interest,  until  his  nephew  began  to  imagine  that 
her  wonderful  fascinations  could  not  be  wholly  without 
their  effect,  and  must  awaken  in  his  uncle's  breast  the 
kindly  and  fatherly  affection  he  would  have  wished  to 
have  him  feel  towards  his  bride. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  Linked  in  the  inwoven  charm 
Of  converse  and  caresses  sweet  and  deep." 

KORMAK'S  SAGA. 

"  She  that  has  no  one  to  love  or  trust,  has  little  to  hope." 

Rasselas. — DR.  JOHNSON. 

TirE  gay  season  of  that  brilliant  winter  at  last  died  in 
a  series  of  splendid  balls,  and  Lent  began  its  mournful 
reign.  The  bright  skies  and  sparkling  snows  of  mid- 
winter were  gone,  and  March  scowled  on  the  frozen 
earth.  The  streets  were  full  of  half-melted  ice,  bleak 
winds  blew  incessantly,  and  often,  for  days  together, 
wretched  storms  of  sleet  and  rain  re'ndered  it  impossible 
to  leave  the  snug  fireside. 

During  these  weeks  of  seclusion  and  quiet  home- 
enjoyments,  Floyd  found  himself  constantly  alone  with 
Medora.  Sometimes  he  lounged  idly  near  her  during 
the  mornings,  while  with  wonderful  rapidity  she  wrought 
some  delicate  embroidery,  or,  having  but  little  taste  for 
the  feminine  graces  of  the  needle,  found  a  more  con- 
genial amusement  in  that  favorite  resource  of  all  ladies 
for  the  entertainment  of  a  lover,  the  idle  fingering  of 
the  piano.  Then,  while  she  played  with  great  taste  and 
expression,  or  sang  in  a  rich  clear  voice  whose  passionate 
tones  thrilled  the  heart,  he  would  watch  with  worship- 


i  $o  Southwold. 

ping  fondness  the  play  of  feeling  on  her  perfect  featmvs. 
And*  again  he  indulged  in  the  dangerous  pleasure  of  sit- 
ting by  her  side  through  the  dreamy  twilight,  while  the 
pale  sunshine  faded  away,  and  only  the  ruddy  glow  of 
the  coals  filled  the  room  with  its  cheerful  tone.  Yc-t  lie 
never  approached  the  forbidden  theme  of  love.  After 
the  mild  reproof  with  which  she  had  rejected  his  former 
suit,  he  felt  that  it  would  be  dishonorable  for  him  to 
venture  again  to  address  her,  although  he  made  no 
attempt  to  conceal  the  absorbing  devotion  that  prompted 
every  action,  the  loving  tenderness  that  filled  his 
breast. 

Medora's  own  refined  nature  appreciated  fully  this 
delicate  reserve.  Although  she  had  taken  pains  to  mani- 
fest on  every  occasion  a  preference  for  his  society,  she 
saw  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  his  again  offering 
her  his  hand  without  more  decided  encouragement  than 
he  had  as  yet  received,  and  she  watched  eagerly  for  an 
opportunity  when  she  might  secure  a  ttte-d-tvte  free  from 
all  possibility  of  interruption. 

The  occasion  presented  itself  when,  one  evening,  her 
mother  went  to  dine  with  her  cousins,  the  Misses 
Clinton.  These  were  two  sisters,  ladies,  who  to  say  the 
least  had  survived  early  youth.  They  resided  on  one  of 
the  quiet  old  parks,  in  a  house  whose  principal  furniture 
remained  unchanged  since  their  girlish  days.  Yet,  as 
the  years  rolled  on,  they  had  become  more  sad  and 
sombre  in  their  tastes,  until  in  the  arrangement  of  their 
parlor  they  had  carefully  avoided  everything  that  was 
out  of  the  straight  line  of  propriety,  even  banishing 
some  fine  old  pictures  of  their  father'^,  on  the  ground 
that  the  subjects  were  not  of  a  strictly  moral  character, 


South  wold.  151 

and  substituting  in  their  places  various  scriptural  scenes 
that  made  up  in  piety  what  they  lacked  as  works  of  art. 
Indeed,  so  fond  were  they  of  a  style  of  ornament  sug- 
gestive of  devotion  that  their  clock  was  a  kneeling 
Samuel,  their  hearth-rug  depicted  Meschac,  Shadrac, 
and  Abednego  in  the  fiery  furnace,  while  their  chandelier 
represented  Korah  swinging  the  obnoxious  censer. 

When  Mrs.  Fielding  received  her  invitation  to  this 
maiden  home,  and  announced  her  intention  of  accepting 
it,  Medora  understood  that  she  should  have  a  long, 
quiet  evening.  A  mere  casual  mention  of  this  to  Floyd, 
when  he  joined  her  in  her  morning  walk,  insured  its  not 
being  spent  alone.  Her  mother  had  not  been  gone  long 
when  a  card  was  brought  up.  She  scarcely  needed  to 
glance  at  it  to  tell  the  waiting  servant — 

"  Show  Mr.  Southwold  up,  John,  and  be  sure  to  re- 
member that  I  am  not  at  home  to  any  one  else." 

A  moment  afterwards  Floyd  entered,  looking  radiant, 
as  he  always  did  when  he  met  this  woman,  whose  pre- 
sence made  his  happiness.  Medora  rose  to  meet  him 
with  a  charming  cordiality,  and  as  she  re-seated  herself 
on  the  sofa,  arranged  her  dress  with  that  air,  which,  in 
a  lady,  implies  "  sit  beside  me."  Of  course,  Floyd  ac- 
cepted the  tacit  invitation,  and  thus  placed  himself  so 
near  her  that  the  ample  folds  of  her  skirt  touched  him, 
and  with  every  breath  he  inhaled  the  subtle  perfume 
that  was  as  much  one  of  her  distinguishing  characteris- 
tics as  the  golden  sheen  of  her  hair  or  the  sunny  light 
of  her  eyes. 

Under  these  bewildering  circumstances  it  was  entirely 
impossible  for  him  to  talk  interestedly,  or  indeed  cohe- 
rently on  any  subject  but  one,  and  that  was  interdicted. 


1 52  Southwold. 

He  gave,  therefore,  but  disconnected  answers  to  her 
few  attempts  at  conversation  until  she  said — 

"  You  have  never  told  me  anything  about  your  visit 
at  Stratford.  Of  course,  it  was  delightful." 

"  I  was  glad  to  see  my  mother,  but,"  he  added  with 
a  sigh,  "  when  I  first  went  there  I  was  too  unhappy  to 
enjoy  anything." 

"  Why,  what  made  you  unhappy  ?"  asked  Medora, 
innocently. 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  ?"  replied  Floyd,  with  an 
eager  glance ;  "  surely,  you  ought  to  recollect  what  a 
bitter  disappointment  I  had  just  before  I  left  South- 
wold." 

"  I  remember  it  only  too  well,"  responded  Medora, 
almost  in  a  whisper  ;  "  do  you  think  I  have  not  suffered 
also  ?" 

Floyd  would  have  been  more  or  less  than  man  could 
he  have  resisted  that  appeal,  the  soft  tone  in  which  the 
words  were  pronounced,  the  downcast  eyes,  and  the 
suppressed  sigh  at  their  close.  Beside  himself  with  joy 
at  the  acknowledgment,  delirious  with  passion,  he  poured 
out  all  his  pent-up  love  and  longings,  and  when,  at  the 
close  of  an  eloquent  appeal,  Medora  faltered  that  pro- 
mise he  had  despaired  of  ever  obtaining,  he  clasped  her 
unresistingly  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  his  trembling  lips 
to  hers. 

In  those  wild  moments  no  answering  fire  burnt  in 
Medora's  cold  breast.  She  felt,  it  is  true,  a  certain 
sense  of  comfort  in  the  thought  that  she  had  securely 
won  his  honest  heart,  but  with  it  there  was  a  dreary 
consciousness  that  she  had  now  irrevocably  united  her 
fate  with  this  man's,  whose  future  was  yet  too  doubtful 


Southwold.  1 53 

for  her  to  look  forward  to  it  with  any  hope  of  the  peace- 
ful repose  for  which  she  longed  so  earnestly. 

Fortunately  for  him  Floyd  felt  and  saw  no  want  on 
her  part,  he  only  knew  that  such  a  flood  of  bright- 
ness had  burst  upon  him  as  dazzled  and  blinded  him 
with  its  effulgence.  All  the  despair  of  the  past  months 
was  gone,  and  he  was  intoxicatingly  happy.  Medora 
loved  him,  and  no  king  on  his  throne  can  have  a  dearer 
prize  than  the  answering  affection  of  the  woman  he 
adores.  She  loved  him,  and  he  fancied  that  heaven 
could  never  again  grant  him  so  great  a  boon  as 
this. 

With  the  trembling  eloquence  of  deep  feeling,  he 
poured  out  his  passionate  protestations,  until  a  chilling 
recollection  checked  somewhat  his  joyous  words,  and  he 
said,  despondently: 

"  Medora,  you  are  too  kind.  How  can  I  be  so  selfish 
as  to  ask  you  to  make  the  sacrifice  you  must  in  marry- 
ing me  ?" 

"Rather,"  replied  Medora,  gently  endeavoring  to 
disengage  herself  from  his  embrace,  "rather  let  me 
remember,  what  you  almost  made  me  forget,  that  I 
should  not  permit  you  to  give  up  wealth  for  me." 

Of  course,  Floyd  only  clasped  her  closer,  as  he  ex- 
claimed : 

"  You  know  that  I  had  rather  share  a  hovel  with  you, 
than  live  in  a  palace  without  you." 

"  See  how  selfish  we  both  are,"  said  Medora,  with  a 
bewitching  smile.  "We  are  each  quite  willing  to  en- 
dure poverty,  provided  the  other  shares  it." 

"It  would  be  a  light  trial  to  me;  but,"  he  added, 
tenderly,  "although  I  should  not  feel  it  for  myself,  I 


1 54  Southwold. 

could  not  bear  to  see  you  have  one  ungratified  wish,  my 
darling." 

How  that  word  thrilled  her  very  heart  with  the 
hopeless  memories  it  awakened.  Yet,  with  an  effort, 
she  suppressed  the  emotion,  and  answrered  cheerfully : 

"  But,  my  friend,  why  should  you  speak  so  despond- 
ently ?  I  do  not  believe  there  is  really  as  great  cause 
for  it  as  you  think,  though  I  do  not  correctly  under- 
stand your  relations  with  your  uncle.  Come,  tell  me 
all  about  it." 

So  Floyd  related  everything  that  had  passed  between 
them — that  promise  given,  when  he  was  an  infant, 
whose  fulfilment  at  one  time  he  regarded  as  certain — 
confidently  expecting  to  be  his  uncle's  acknowledged 
heir,  under  any  circumstances,  until  that  interview 
when  Mr.  Southw^old  had  dashed  his  hopes  to  the 
ground,  and  rendered  him  so  unhappy. 

"How  cruel!"  exclaimed  Medora,  when  Floyd  had 
concluded  his  brief  narration. 

"  Oh !  not  that,"  he  rejoined,  earnestly.  "  He  had  a 
right  to  his  prejudices  and  their  gratification." 

"  No,"  continued  Medora,  quickly ;  "  he  had  not,  in 
this  case,  and  his  conduct  was  not  only  cruel,  but  un- 
just." 

"Unjust!  how?" 

"  In  this ;  that  after  having  induced  your  parents  to 
give  you  his  name,  by  coupling  the  request  that  they 
would  do  so  with  a  promise  to  adopt  you  as  a  son,  no 
act  of  your  mother's  released  him  from  the  obligation, 
and  he  is  bound  to  fulfil  it  under  any  circumstances." 

"But,"  urged  Floyd,  "he  does  intend  to  make  me  his 
heir,  ultimately.  That  is  all  I  am  entitled  to  expect." 


South  wold.  1 55 

"  Is  that  acting  a  parent's  part  ?  No,  indeed  !  You 
have  every  reason  not  only  to  expect,  but  to  demand, 
that  he  should  treat  you  in  all  respects  as  a  son.  If  he 
does  not  wish  you  to  live  with  him  as  a  married  man, 
he  should  give  you  a  sufficient  portion  of  your  inherit- 
ance at  once  to  establish  you  in  life." 

This  suggestion  shed  a  faint  ray  of  light  on  Floyd's 
clouded  prospects,  and  he  seized  it  eagerly. 

"  Perhaps  he  may  be  induced  to  do  something  of  the 
sort ;  he  knows  how  much  I  am  attached  to  you,  and  he 
has  been  much  interested  in  you  himself,  lately.  I  am 
sure  he  admires  you  extremely ;  indeed,  he  could  not 
help  that." 

Medora  had  accomplished  what  she  wished ;  she  had 
boldly  put  into  words  the  dissatisfaction  Floyd  had  not 
yet  trusted  himself  to  utter,  and  at  the  same  time  pre- 
sented a  possible  hope  for  the  future.  She  now  per- 
mitted the  conversation  to  return  to  love ;  that  old 
theme  which,  since  it  was  first  breathed  in  the  bowers 
of  Eden  by  the  only  two  human  beings  in  the  whole 
desolate  earth,  down  to  this  day,  when  millions  are 
whispering  it,  in  the  cottages  and  palaces  of  the  thick- 
peopled  world,  has  been  the  dearest  that  mortal  lips  can 
utter. 

The  hours  of  that  happy  evening  glided  by  like  so 
many  seconds,  until,  at  a  hint  from  Medora  that  it  was 
very  late,  Floyd  rose  to  go.  Then  he  suggested  that 
propriety  demanded  that  he  should  at  once  inform  his 
Uncle  of  his  new  engagement,  and  request  the  honor  of 
Mrs.  Fielding's  consent. 

"  Oh  yes !  of  course,  you  must  speak  to  mamma ;  you 
can  come  to-morrow  morning  for  that,  but  I  had  rather 


1 56  South  wold. 

you  would  wait  a  day  or  two  longer  before  mentioning 
it  to  Mr.  Southwold." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it.  You  know  henceforth  I  am 
your  slave,"  he  added  gallantly. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  how  long  Floyd  might  have 
lingered  over  the  sweet  parting,  but  a  few  minutes  after- 
wards Mrs.  Fielding  returned.  She  greeted  him  with 
great  cordiality,  for,  regarding  him  as  an  eligible  parti, 
she  was  always  glad  to  see  him  with  her  daughter.  This 
did  not,  however,  prevent  Floyd  from  feeling  a  delight- 
ful half  guilty  embarrassment,  and  he  left  as  soon  as 
politeness  permitted. 

"  What  a  charming  fellow  he  is  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Fielding,  enthusiastically,  almost  before  he  was  out  of 
hearing. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  him,"  replied  her  daughter,  as 
she  flung  herself  wearily  on  the  sofa,  "  for  I  intend  to 
marry  him." 

"  Marry  him,  Medora !"  cried  her  mother,  "  are  you 
engaged  to  him  ?" 

"  Of  course,  or  I  should  not  say  so;  he  has  this  evening 
offered  himself  to  me,  and  I  have  accepted  him." 

"  Dear  me ! "  said  Mrs.  Fielding,  sinking  back  into 
her  chair ;  "  well,  I  suppose  it  is  a  good  match,  as  every 
one  says  he  is  to  be  his  Uncle's  heir,  but  you  should  not 
have  told  me  so  suddenly,  I  am  really  quite  faint  with 
the  shock." 

Thus  did  she  receive  this  announcement  that  might 
involve  her  daughter's  happiness  for  life,  giving  no  tender 
sympathy,  offering  no  kindly  advice,  only  with  a  queru- 
lous complaint.  It  is  not  surprising  that  Medora  gave 
but  an  impatient  reply,  an<i  that  she  shortly  after  retired, 


Southwold.  1 57 

not  that  she  was  weary  or  drowsy,  but  that  in  her  little 
bed,  during  the  silence  of  night,  was  the  only  time  she 
could  quietly  reflect. 

There,  in  those  still  hours,  she  could  take  counsel  with 
her  own  heart,  the  only  confidante  she  ever  trusted, 
having  long  since  come  to  rely  solely  upon  herself. 
A  piteous  lesson  is  this  for  any  woman  to  learn,  for 
with  their  affectionate  natures  that  instinctively  yearn 
for  sympathy  and  guidance,  it  can  never  be  accomplished 
without  a  fearful  loss  of  all  the  tenderer  and  softer  qua- 
lities. 

Medora  felt  none  of  the  trembling  joy  of  the  happy 
fiancee,  in  contemplating  her  engagement.  She  had 
only  a  galling  sense  of  her  loss  of  freedom,  and  a  con- 
sciousness that  her  conduct  henceforth  must  be  most 
warily  guarded.  It  was  impossible  for  her  as  yet  to 
form  any  satisfactory  plans  for  the  future,  beyond  urging 
upon  her  lover  the  suggestion  she  had  hazarded  that 
evening,  although  she  had  very  slender  hopes  of  its 
success. 

Among  other  harassing  thoughts,  she  was  somewhat 
anxious  as  to  the  morning's  interview  between  her 
mother  and  Floyd,  lest  he  should  openly  avow  his 
poverty,  and  she  should  become  alarmed,  .or  imprudently 
permit  it  to  transpire.  But  this  proved  to  be  a  ground- 
less fear,  for  the  honest  young  fellow  was  so  full  of  his 
overflowing  love  and  bright  hopes,  that  Mrs.  Fielding, 
who  had  frequently  figured  in  similar  interviews,  and  was 
quite  accustomed  to  the  hyperbole  of  lovers,  attributed 
what  he  said  about  "  working  for  her  daughter  day  and 
night  "  to  the  natural  romance  of  his  feelings,  which  was 
quite  explained  when  he  talked  of  "winning  fame." 


158  Southwold. 

Delighted  with  his  deferential  courtesy,  she  gave  such  a 
complimentary  consent  to  his  wooing,  that  he  quitted 
her  with  a  heart  overflowing  with  gratitude  and  happi- 
ness. 

Returning  to  his  room,  he  was  soon  busily  engaged  in 
•writing  a  long  letter  to  his  mother,  informing  her  of  his 
engagement,  and  dwelling,  as  lovers  are  wont,  on  each 
perfection  of  the  beautiful  woman  he  adored.  Little  did 
"he  guess,  in  his  own  joyousness,  the  effect  which  the 
perusal  of  those  trembling  lines  would  produce — the 
vague  solicitude  that  sprang  up  in  his  tender  mother's 
heart,  or  the  uncomplaining  misery  of  the  gentle  Dannie, 
who,  in  one  sad  moment,  awoke  to  the  double  conscious- 
ness that  she  had  loved,  and  that  she  had  loved  in  vain ! 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"Ueber  euch  Weiber  und  das  ewige  KathselP 


SCHILLER. 


"  Remember  that  love  is  a  passion,  and  that  a  worthy  man's  reason 
must  ever  have  the  masterhood." 

The  Arcadia. — SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

"  May  you  be  as  happy  with  him  as  your  amiable  dispositions  de- 
serve, and  think  sometimes  of  the  friends  you  have  lost." 

Waverky. — SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

DURING  the  next  week,  which  was  the  last  of  Lent,  it 
stormed  incessantly,  and  Medora  saw  her  lover  only  in 
private.  Again  and  again  did  she  recur  to  the  interest- 
ing topic  of  his  uncle's  past  conduct  towards  him ;  and 
Floyd,  who  had  at  first  been  somewhat  shocked  at  her 
animadversions  upon  it,  soon  came  to  regard  them  as 
quite  deserved,  or  at  least  to  acquiesce  in  all  she  said. 
Indeed,  her  strong  force  of  character,  coining  in  contact 
with  his  pliant  amiability,  gave  her  a  great  apparent 
ascendency  over  him.  Presuming  upon  this,  she  ven- 
tured constantly  to  urge  upon  him  the  idea  that  he  was 
entitled,  under  any  circumstances,  to  some  present 
assistance.  Finally,  one  morning  when  he  begged  again 
that  she  would  permit  him  to  inform  Mr.  Southwold  of 
his  engagement,  she  coupled  her  consent  with  the  bold 


1 60  Southwold. 

suggestion,  that,  when  announcing  it  to  his  uncle,  he 
should  respectfully  ask  him  to  advance  him  a  certain 
sum  at  once,  adding — 

"  Of  course  we  shall  not  be  married  until  you  are 
admitted  to  the  bar,  and  after  that  I  shall  have  no  fears 
for  the  future." 

"  I  hardly  like  to  make  such  a  request,"  said  Floyd, 
hesitating. 

"  Why  not  ?  It  is  no  more  than  you  have  a  right  to 
demand ;  and  if  Mr.  Southwold  had  your  unselfish  n;i- 
^ture,  he  would  have  proposed  it  himself  long  ago." 

"  But  what  if  he  refuses?" 

"  Then,"  replied  Medora  with  ill-disguised  impatience, 
"  I  suppose  we  must  wait.  However,  I  hardly  think  he 
can  be  so  ungenerous.  At  least  no  harm  can  be  done 
by  making  the  proposition." 

"  I  hope  not ;  for  it  is  certainly  not  unreasonable,  and 
he  must  consider  me  justified  in  suggesting  it." 

This  point  gained,  Medora  cared  very  little  for  con- 
cealing her  engagement.  To  this  conclusion  she  was 
somewhat  hastened  by  receiving  cards  for  a  party  at  Miss 
Sophronia  Hamilton's,  which  was  to  come  off  soon  after 
Lent,  and  was  given  to  announce  the  betrothal  of  her 
brother  and  Miss  Murray. 

Horrible  custom  of  civilized  society,  that  when  two 
hearts  are  plighted,  the  maiden,  wrhose  cheek  should  be 
suffused  with  blushes  at  the  tenderest  allusion  to  so 
sacred  a  pledge,  is  subjected  to  the  public  congratulations 
of  her  friends  at  a  ball  or  rout !  Surely,  modesty  and 
delicacy  must  alike  shrink  wounded  from  such  an 
ordeal. 

Floyd  left  Medora  very  much  gratified  that  she  had 


Southwold.  1 6 1 

at  last  given  him  permission  to  mention  his  engagement 
to  his  uncle,  feeling  that  both  duty  and  propriety  re- 
quired that  he  should  be  made  aware  of  it.  Although 
he  shrank  with  instinctive  delicacy  from  making  the 
request  she  had  urged  upon  him,  he  yet  sought  eagerly 
a  favorable  opportunity  for  conversing  with  Mr.  South- 
wold.  This  did  not  occur  till  after  dinner,  when  they 
were  quietly  seated  with  their  wine  and  post-prandial 
cigars.  Not  without  some  hesitation  and  a  short  pause 
for  reflection,  Floyd  began — 

"  Uncle  Southwold,  I  believe  that  my  conduct  towards 
Miss  Fielding  last  summer  met  with  your  approbation." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  his  uncle,  a  little  surprised,  "  if 
you  considered  yourself  in  honor  bound  to  the  young 
lady,  you  were  quite  right  in  addressing  her,  notwith- 
standing my  dislike  to  the  idea  of  your  marrying." 

"I  trust  I  may  venture  to  hope  that  that  prejudice  is 
in  a  measure  removed,  for  my  object  in  alluding  to  the 
subject  is  to  announce  to  you  that  I  have  the  honor  to 
be  engaged  to  her." 

"Really,  Floyd,  you  astonish  me,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Southwold,  with  an  impatient  start  and  a  look  of  vexa- 
tion ;  "  I  thought  that  folly  was  done  with  for  ever !" 

"  Please  God  it  will  last  my  life,  sir,"  replied  Floyd, 
earnestly ;  "  though  I  deeply  regret  that  the  idea  is 
distasteful  to  you." 

"And  when  do  you  propose  espousing  the  young 
lady  ?» 

"I  fear  not  very  soon.  I  should  like  to  resume  the 
study  of  my  profession  at  once.  Although  I  should  feel 
deeply  grateful  if  you  would  give  me  some  jpresent 
assistance,  for  which  I  would  willingly  resign  the  expec- 


1 62  South  wold. 

tations  which  you  have  so  kindly  led  me  to  entertain, 
but  which  can  never  be  realized  except  through  an 
event  too  painful  to  bear  contemplation." 

"  That  is,  you  would  barter  your  inheritance,  I  might 
almost  say  your  birthright,  for  the  sake  of.  such  a  sum  as 
would  enable  you  to  marry  at  once." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  would." 

Mr.  Southwold  reflected  for  a  few  moments.  In  every 
point  of  view  this  information  and  request  were  distaste- 
ful to  him.  In  the  first  place,  he  regarded  it  as  entirely 
impossible  for  him  to  make  his  nephew  even  ever  so 
small  an  advancement.  For  years  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  spending  his  entire  income,  not  caring  to  lay  by 
for  he  knew  not  whom,  and  to  set  aside  any  portion  of  the 
principal  would  require  some  slight  sacrifice  which,  of 
course,  he  considered  as  entirely  out  of  the  question.  In 
the  second  place,  he  had  his  own  selfish  reasons  for  being 
very  averse  to  his  nephew's  leaving  him.  Coming  to 
this  conclusion,  he  said  decisively — 

"  Really,  Floyd,  it  will  be  quite  impossible  for  me  to 
give  you  anything  till  I  have  done  with  it,  but,  mean- 
time, you  will  not  leave  me  at  present."  Then  to 
relieve  the  awkward  pause  which  followed  his  words,  he 
added  :  "  I  must  do  myself  the  honor  of  paying  a  con- 
gratulatory visit  to  Miss  Fielding — come,  shall  we  go  at 
once  ?" 

Of  course  Floyd  could  not  refuse  to  accompany  his 
uncle,  although  he  was  grievously  disappointed  and 
hurt  at  the  result  of  this  conversation,  and  remembering 
what  Medora  had  said,  it  seemed  to  him  selfish  and 
unkind. 

During  his  visit  of  ceremony  Mr.  Southwold  was  all 


Southwold.  1 63 

dignified  suavity  and  graceful  compliment,  and  Medora 
might  have  been  deceived  into  the  supposition  that  he 
regarded  his  nephew's  proposed  alliance  as  in  the 
highest  degree  gratifying,  had  not  Floyd  found  an 
opportunity,  while  his  uncle  was  conversing  with  Mrs. 
Fielding,  to  intimate  that  his  suit  had  been  unsuccessful. 
Glancing  from  her  lover  to  those  cold  sharp-cut  features, 
Medora  knew  that  there  was  no  hope  of  relenting  in 
that  thoroughly  selfish  character,  and  the  hatred  that 
sprang  up  in  her  remorseless  brain  might  have  made 
that  old  man  tremble. 

To  Floyd's  surprise,  when  they  were  alone,  while  com- 
plaining bitterly  of  their  recent  disappointment,  she  yet 
violently  opposed  his  wish  to  recommence  the  study  of 
the  law.  She  only  succeeded  in  inducing  him  to  yield 
to  this  strange  request  by  employing  an  argument  that 
to  so  fond  a  lover  was  unanswerable.  She  reminded 
him  that  she  should  be  at  Lazy-Bank  for  a  good  por- 
tion of  the  summer,  and  that  during  that  period  he 
must  on  no  account  be  absent  from  Southwold.  She 
also  entreated  him  not  to  mention  to  any  one  their 
uncertain  prospects,  absolutely  making  this  a  condition 
of  her  favor,  and  supporting  it  with  so  many  excellent 
reasons  that,  considering  this  a  trifling  matter,  Floyd 
acquiesced. 

The  following  morning  Medora  went  to  see  Mrs.  Le 
Roy  Clarkson  at  an  hour  when  she  \vas  sure  of  finding 
her  at  home,  in  order  to  announce  her  engagement. 
Seated  cosily  with  her  friend,  Medora  began : 

"  Well,  Sue,  I  have  some  news  to  tell  you." 

"  Really,  some  news !    How  exciting,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  I  am  engaged  to  be  married." 


1 64  South  wold. 

"At  last  the  fascinator  is  fascinated.  Who  is  the 
happy  man  ?" 

"  Floyd  Southwold,  Jr.,  of  South  wold,  at  your  ser- 
vice." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad !  His  devotion  deserves  its 
reward.  My  dear  Medora,  I  congratulate  you  most  sin- 
cerely," cried  Mrs.  Clarkson,  and  rising  she  gently 
kissed  her  friend. 

Her  act  and  tone  showed  so  much  real  kindness  and 
true  sympathy,  that  Medora's  heart,  which  a  moment 
before  had  been  ice,  melted,  and  tears  started  to  her 
eyes.  Thinking  of  how  happy  Mrs.  Clarkson  imagined 
her,  and  of  how  really  wretched  and  perplexed  she  was, 
the  contrast  smote  her  with  sudden  anguish,  and  she 
longed  to  pillow  her  aching  head  on  that  one  tender 
breast  and  sob  out  all  her  sorrows.  With  a  violent 
effort  she  choked  back  her  emotion,  and  strove  to  reply 
gaily,  although  in  a  voice  which  yet  vibrated  with  the 
tremulousness  of  unshed  tears. 

"I  am  sure  you  will  be  very  happy,"  added  Mrs. 
Clarkson,  heartily,  "  you  will  live  at  that  lovely  place, 
and  with  Mr.  Southwold  who  is  such  a  charming  old 
gentleman." 

These  last  words  aroused  a  new  train  of  thought  in 
Medora's  mind.  She  was  once  more  entirely  mistress 
of  herself,  replying  carelessly — 

"  Ah,  yes,  delightful." 

"  I  congratulate  you  also  on  not  having  to  undergo 
the  disagreeability  of  an  announcement  party." 

"  Yes,  I  am  glad  to  escape  that  trial,  it  must  be  an 
immense  bore." 

"  By  the  way,  you  were  not  at  the  Hamiltons'." 


Southwold.  165 

"  No,  I  left  off  going  there  long  ago,  their  rooms  are 
always  so  cold,  and  Miss  Sophronia  herself  is  so  frigid 
that  their  entertainments  are  invariably  slow." 

"  But  I  believe  she  really  is  a  very  excellent  woman." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  dare  say  she  will  go  to  heaven.  However, 
that  is  but  a  melancholy  reflection  after  all.  Poor  thing, 
she  will  not  even  have  the  consolation  of  being  warm  in 
the  other  world." 

"  Medora !  you  are  too  bad ;  I  am  shocked,  but  you 
would  have  been  amused,  had  you  been  there,  to  see 
Henrietta  Murray  flirting  with  that  young  Spaniard  who 
was  so  attentive  to  her  a  while  ago." 

"  Indeed,  I  should  think  she  would  scarcely  have 
dared  to  do  that  with  a  man  like  Mr.  Hamilton.  How 
did  he  take  it  ?» 

"Rather  savagely;  you  know  Henrietta  Murray, 
though.  I  do  not  envy  him  his  lot  with  her." 

So  the  two  friends  chatted  idly  until  the  arrival  of 
Floyd  interrupted  their  tete-d-tete.  Mrs.  Clarkson  con- 
gratulated him  warmly,  and  sincerely  rejoiced  to  see  in 
his  beaming  face  the  devotion  of  his  heart. 

Supremely  proud  and  happy  was  Floyd  as  he  returned 
with  Medora  leaning  on  his  arm,  openly  acknowledging 
their  betrothal,  and  she  quite  enjoyed  Mr.  Hamilton's 
surprised  look  as  they  chanced  to  meet. 

After  this,  for  several  days,  Medora  held  quite  a  levee 
in  her  little  parlor,  her  friends  hastening,  as  soon  as  her 
engagement  became  generally  known,  to  pay  the  visit 
of  compliment  required  by  etiquette. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  La  jalousie  est  la  plus  grand  de  tous  les  maux,  et  celui  qui  fait 
le  moins  de  pitie  aux  personnes  qui  le  caussent" 

LES  MAXIMES  DE  LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

"Skoal!  to  the  Northmen  I  Skoal!" 

Skeleton  in  Armor. — LONGFELLOVT. 

DURING  the  period  of  Medora's  temporary  triumph 
her  rival,  poor  Lucy  Lascelles,  still  lay  ill  and  suffering. 
The  soft  air  and  bright  sun  of  May  brought  no  renewed 
health  to  her  feeble  frame.  She  had  never  recovered 
from  the  prostrating  illness  which  followed  the  birth  of 
her  little  daughter,  and  it  had  long  ago  been  found  ne- 
cessary to  establish  some  one  permanently  at  the  head 
of  her  household.  Whenever  an  instance  like  this  oc- 
curs be  sure  some  tender  ministering  angel  will  spring 
up.  In  this  case  it  was  a  widowed  cousin,  who  hastened 
with  eager  alacrity  to  shut  herself  up  in  this  house  of 
illness,  and  devote  herself  with  untiring  patience  to  the 
cheering  and  amusing  of  the  poor  invalid.  Mrs.  Hartly 
had  herself,  during  the  brief  period  of  her  married  life, 
known  the  devotion  of  an  affectionate  husband,  and  she 
speedily  discovered,  that,  although  Lucy  never  com- 
plained, the  worst  cause  of  the  illness,  which  sometimes 
seemed  to  threaten  her  life,  was  the  neglect  of  Lascelles. 
Since  the  birth  of  her  infant,  through  the  weary  weeks 


Southwold.  167 

of  three  long  months,  she  had  failed  to  gain  sufficient 
strength  to  leave  her  room.  Sometimes,  for  days  to- 
gether, she  was  unable  even  to  quit  her  bed  for  more 
than  a  few  moments,  when  propped  on  pillows  she  would 
look  longingly  at  the  outside  world,  in  which  already 
she  was  almost  forgotten.  Her  poor  babe  had  thriven 
but  ill,  and  her  anxiety  about  its  welfare,  together  with 
her  husband's  unkindness  and  neglect,  so  wore  upon 
her,  that  it  was  not  surprising  that  the  physician  in 
attendance  almost  despaired  of  her  recovery. 

When  a  friend  one  day,  dropping  in  to  cheer  her 
with  a  few  moments'  chat  and  the  news  of  the  town, 
informed  her  of  Medora's  engagement,  a  sudden  glenm 
of  light  brightened  her  poor  stricken  heart  with  the 
hope  that  this  false  enchantress,  whom  she  believed  to 
have  stolen  her  husband's  affections,  would  no  more 
darken  her  path  with  her  fatal  spells.  At  the  time  she 
received  this  information  Lascelles  was  absent  on  some 
business  connected  with  the  estate  of  his  late  father-in- 
law,  and  on  his  return,  when  he  came  in  for  a  few  que- 
ries about  her  health,  Lucy  could  not  forbear  asking  him — 

"  Have  you  heard  of  the  new  engagement,  Walter  ?" 

"  New  to  you,  I  suppose  you  mean,  Mr.  Hamilton 
and  Miss  Murray.  I  knew  of  that  long  ago." 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  replied  Lucy ;  "  Miss  Sophronia  sent  us 
cards  for  the  announcement  party.  I  do  not  allude  to 
that,  but  to  one  that  has  come  out  since  you  left." 

"  Well,  whose  is  it  ?" 

"  Medora  Fielding  is  engaged  to  young  Floyd  South- 
wold,  from  up  the  river." 

"  Not  really !"  exclaimed  Lascelles,  starting  up  with 
an  oath. 


1 68  Southwold. 

"  Every  one  says  so.  It  has  been  formally  announced, 
and  Medora  has  received  congratulatory  calls." 

He  was  completely  overcome  by  this  intelligence, 
never  having  even  heard  of  Floyd's  attentions,  as  they 
had  been  principally  paid  since  all  gaiety  had  ceased, 
and  while  he  was  entirely  out  of  society.  Having  suc- 
ceeded hi  breaking  off  her  affair  with  Mr.  Hamilton,  he 
had  fancied  that  for  the  present  there  was  little  danger 
of  her  securing  another  lover,  so  that  he  was  totally 
unprepared  for  the  shock  of  finding  a  new  obstacle 
between  them.  Acting,  as  was  his  wont,  upon  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  without  pausing  an  instant  for 
reflection,  he  hurriedly  quitted  the  room  and  the  house, 
directing  his  steps,  with  the  intention  of  seeing  Medora 
at  all  hazards,  to  the  boarding-house  where  she  lived — 
as  incongruously  housed  as  if  a  gorgeous  bird  of  Para- 
dise was  imprisoned  in  the  cage  of  a  cottage-door  linnet. 

It  was  too  early  for  formal  visiting  hours.  Remember- 
ing this,  and  that  he  might  perhaps  be  refused  admit- 
tance, he  would  not  send  up  his  name,  but  ran  up-stairs 
and  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  parlor  himself. 

"  Who's  there  ?" 

These  words,  pronounced  in  those  clear  ringing  tones 
he  knew  so  well,  informed  him  that  Medora  was  within, 
and  without  answering,  he  abruptly  entered.  She  was 
alone — seated  at  the  piano  in  a  graceful  morning  dress, 
her  fingers  straying  idly  over  the  keys,  her  thoughts 
full  of  the  soft  memories  which  would  sometimes  steal 
over  her.  Yet,  when  that  man  of  whom  she  had  just 
been  dreaming  appeared  so  unceremoniously  before  her, 
it  recalled  ah1  her  dignity,  and  she  arose  with  a  frigid 
bow. 


Southwold.  1 69 

"  To  what  am  I  indebted  for  the  honor  of  this  unex- 
pected visit  ?" 

k4  jlodora !"  exclaimed  Lascelles  impetuously,  "is  it 
true  that  you  are  engaged  to  Floyd  Southwold  ?" 

"  Really,  sir,  that  is  a  question  which  I  might  deny  you 
the  right  to  ask ;  but  since  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  wish  to  conceal  the  fact,  I  will  answer  you  that 
I  am." 

"  And  do  you  love  him  ?" 

"Mr.  Lascelles,  you  forget  yourself!" 

"  Oh,  Medora !  do  not  speak  to  me  so  coldly,  I 
implore  you.  How  can  I  remember  anything  but  that  I 
love  you,  and  that  it  makes  me  wretched  to  think  of  you 
as  another's." 

Perhaps  at  that  moment  Medora  felt  that  Lascelles 
was  enduring  what  she  once  had,  when  she  first  knew 
that  he  was  faithless,  and  this  thought,  even  then,  was  one 
of  triumphant  pleasure. 

Her  voice  trembled  a  little,  as  with  an  effort  she 
replied : 

"  Mr.  Lascelles,  I  must  beg  you  to  leave  me.  You 
have  already  injured  me  hopelessly  in  the  estimation  of 
one  man  by  your  imprudent  avowals.  I  am  expecting 
Mr.  Southwold  every  moment — I  entreat  you  to  go." 

Even  as  she  uttered  these  words  there  came  a  bound- 
ing step  upon  the  stairs,  whose  every  accent  spoke  the 
happy  lover  seeking  his  mistress.  Lascelles  heard  it, 
and  said  as  he  turned  away — 

"  I  see  that  it  is  useless  for  me  to  linger  now,  but  oh ! 
Medora,  think  of  me  sometimes,  and  be  sure  that  no 
marriage  shall  ever  wholly  separate  us." 

As  he  spoke  he  opened  the  door  and  passed  by  Floyd, 


1  jo  South  wold. 

who  was  waiting  outside,  with  a  steady  stare.  At  that 
moment  he  saw  that  Medora's  lover  was  young  and 
handsome,  and  he  supposed  him  rich.  Could  she  have 
seen  the  frantic  jealousy  wrhich  filled  his  heart  at  that 
moment  she  would  have  known  that  her  own  sufferings 
were  in  a  measure  avenged. 

"  Was  not  that  Mr.  Lascelles  ?"  asked  Floyd,  with  the 
same  vague  feeling  of  uneasiness  that  had  crossed  his 
mind  when  he  encountered  him  on  their  walk. 

"  Yes  !"  answered  Medora,  carelessly,  "  he  wishes  me 
to  go  and  see  his  wife,  poor  girl ;  she  has  been  confined 
to  her  room  for  three  months  past.  I  really  ought  to 
call  there." 

This  reply  completely  reassured  Floyd,  and  he  sat 
down  beside  her  as  trustingly  fond  as  ever ;  yet  their 
talk  that  morning  was  a  little  saddened  on  his  part  by 
the  thought  of  his  approaching  departure.  It  was 
arranged  that  he  was  to  leave  for  Stratford  the  day 
upon  which  his  uncle  started  for  Southwold,  warned  by 
the  advancing  spring  that  his  presence  would  be  neces- 
sary in  directing  some  projected  improvements. 

"So  he  is  going  to  build  a  palm-house  and  new 
grapery,"  said  Medora. 

"  Yes,  he  thinks  they  will  be  a  great  addition  to  the 
place." 

"  Very  likely ;  yet  he  will  spend  more  on  this  freak 
of  fancy  than  we  should  require  for  a  year's  support." 

"  Oh !  Dearest  Medora,  I  wish  you  would  not  say 
such  things,  it  makes  me  so  unhappy,  and  it  is  not  like 
your  really  noble  heart." 

A  little  startled  by  this  reproof,  gentle  as  it  was, 
Medora  hastened  to  make  such  a  reply  as  would  rein- 


South  wold.  1 7 1 

state  her  in  her  lover's  opinion.  "Without  as  yet  any 
definite  plans  for  the  future,  she  was  extremely  desirous 
to  excite  in  Floyd's  mind  feelings  of  discontent  towards 
his  uncle,  instinctively  perceiving  that  his  influence 
was  hostile  to  her  own.  Her  exquisite  tact,  however, 
warned  her  that  this  result  would  be  more  easily  accom- 
plished by  a  few  judicious  hints  than  by  open  denuncia- 
tions. 

Yet  she  would  have  been  more  than  justified  in  the 
severest  animadversions  upon  Mr.  Southwold's  conduct. 
Indeed,  FJoyd  himself  had  been  deeply  pained  by  the 
manner  in  which  his  uncle  treated  his  engagement, 
speaking  of  it  as  if  it  had  been  merely  contracted  for 
the  amusement  of  an  hour,  and  if  asked  how  soon  they 
were  to  be  married,  replying — 

"  Oh !  we  do  not  talk  of  that  yet  awhile.  We  must 
give  their  constancy  a  trial  first." 

In  fact  the  wily  old  gentleman  was  fully  determined 
to  break  up  the  proposed  alliance.  At  first  he  indulged 
a  hope  that  Floyd  might  tire  of  it.  Finding,  however, 
that  his  attachment  strengthened  with  every  interview, 
he  resolved  systematically  to  endeavor  to  draw  out  the 
unamiable  or  dangerous  qualities,  which  his  quick  eye 
detected  lurking  under  Meclora's  rare  fascinations  of 
manner,  and  to  force  them  upon  Floyd's  attention. 

With  this  intention  he  frequently  joined  his  nephew 
in  his  evening  visits  to  hisjfcmcee,  seeking  to  induce  her 
to  avow  some  unfeminine  or  heterodox  sentiment.  So 
far,  however,  in  these  encounters  of  wit,  Medora  had 
invariably  retained  her  lady-like  self-possession.  With 
ready  penetration  she  detected  Mr.  Southwold's  motive, 
and  while  it  deepened  her  dislike  towards  him  into 


172  Southwold. 

active  hatred,  she  yet  warily  guarded  every  step  so  as 
completely  to  baffle  his  ingenuity. 

Under  these  circumstances,  she  did  not  meet  him  with 
much  real  pleasure  when  he  joined  his  nephew  in  his  fare- 
well call  on  the  evening  before  they  left.  As  usual,  he 
took  a  seat  near  her,  and  after  a  few  moments  the  con- 
versation between  Mrs.  Fielding  and  Floyd  died  into 
monosyllables,  and  then  ceased  altogether,  as  they  be- 
came absorbed  in  listening  to  the  singular  discussion 
going  on  between  his  uncle  and  Medora.  Evidently 
Mr.  Southwold  had  at  last  selected  a  topic  which  deeply 
interested  her,  for  she  was  listening  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  flashing  eyes,  as  he  said  : 

"  I  maintain,  Miss  Fielding,  that  all  women  should  be 
sincere  Christians,  because  your  sex  owes  everything  to 
the  elevating  influences  of  that  system  of  religion." 

MEDORA,  a  little  excitedly. — "  I  agree  with  you  per- 
fectly so  far  as  this :  all  women  should,  if  possible,  be 
deeply  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  true  piety ;  but  this 
for  their  own  sakes,  as  the  surest  guide  through  the 
thorny  paths  of  existence.  I  deny  that  they  owe  any 
special  debt  of  gratitude  to  Christianity." 

MR.  SOUTHWOLD. — "  You  do  not  surely  wish  to  imply 
that  it  is  not  that  which  has  raised  them  from,  the  rank 
of  slaves  to  their  present  high  position  ?" 

MEDORA. — "  Yes,  sir,  I  do !" 

MRS.  FIELDING,  interrupting. — "  My  darling  Medora, 
do  not  be  rash." 

MEDORA. — "  I  do  not  intend  to  be,  my  dear  mamma,  but 
I  insist  upon  this,  that  our  sex  is  indebted  for  the  place 
it  now  holds,  not  to  Christian,  but  to  Pagan  influences." 

FLOYD,  startled  and  horrified. — "  Pagan  ?" 


South  wold.  1 73 

MEDORA. — "  Yes !  Allow  me  to  explain  myself.  No 
nation  has  ever  assigned  to  us  so  noble  a  rank  as  the 
ancient  Scandinavians — those  northern  barbarians — who 
worshipped  Odin  and  dreamed  of  the  fair  Alruna  maidens. 
They  regarded  their  wives  as  companions  to  be  con- 
sulted on  all  important  occasions,  and  when  their  resistless 
hordes  swept  over  Europe,  conquering  everywhere  by 
their  stalwart  arms  and  dauntless  courage,  they  carried 
with  them  those  pure  women,  whose  smiles  inspired 
their  boldest  deeds.  It  was  their  example,  and  the  ter- 
ror of  their  name,  which  forced  the  Christian  nations  of 
the  South  to  respect  as  well  as  to  admire  their  gentle 
sisters;  and  from  that  moment  the  supremacy  of  our 
sex  was  established." 

"Eloquently  argued,"  cried  Floyd,  regarding  with 
undisguised  admiration  the  beautiful  girl,  who,  with  her 
clear  blue  eyes,  and  clustering  golden  hair,  was  in  her- 
self a  splendid  specimen  of  that  blonde  race,  from  whom, 
doubtless,  in  some  remote  age,  her  ancestry  sprung. 

ME.  SOUTHWOLD,  calmly. — "  Yes,  Miss  Fielding  cer- 
tainly pleads  her  cause  well ;  but  I  think  by  so  doing 
she  strikes  at  one  of  the  most  exquisite  corroborations 
of  Christianity." 

MEDORA. — "  I  trust  not ;  for  I  can  scarcely  imagine  it  to 
be  necessary  to  the  maintenance  of  a  true  faith  that  we 
should  believe  all  the  false  arguments  which  enthusiasts 
have  adduced  in  its  support." 

MR.  SOUTHWOLD. — "  Armed  at  all  points,  I  see." 

FLOYD,  rising,  and  approaching  Medora. — "  Yes  ! 
uncle  ;  you  will  find  it  difficult  to  vanquish  one  who  has 
already  conquered  so  many." 

Mr.  Southwold  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  the 


1 74  Southwold. 

result  of  his  attack,  and  would  have  liked  to  prolong 
the  contest  further,  but  Medora  gracefully  turned  to 
converse  with  his  nephew,  and  very  soon  after  he  rose, 
taking  leave  of  the  ladies  with  much  formal  and  stately 
politeness. 

Floyd  lingered,  and  was  rewarded  by  a  few  moments 
alone  with  Medora.  After  that,  it  was  useless  for  Mr. 
Southwold  to  reason  with  his  nephew's  infatuated  devo- 
tion ;  for  all  the  arguments  he  could  urge  against  that 
fair  woman,  were  a  thousand  times  outweighed  by  the 
rapture  of  her  parting  kiss. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

"  Je  descends  dans  la  tombe  oil  tu  m'as  condamnee." 

Cinna. — PIERRE  CORNEILLE. 

"  Love  is  strong  as  death,  jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave." 

THE  SONG  or  SOLOMON. 

As  soon  as  Lascelles  discovered  that  Floyd  and  his 
uncle  had  left  town,  he  made  another  attempt  to  see 
Medora,  but  failed  in  obtaining  an  interview.  She  had 
censured  so  severely  the  conduct  of  the  servant  wTho  on 
that  last  occasion  permitted  him  to  pass  unannounced, 
that  when  he  again  presented  himself,  the  man  insisted 
upon  taking  up  his  card,  returning  speedily  with  the 
information  that  Miss  Fielding  was  "  not  at  home." 

Baffled  and  disappointed  he  was  still  watchful  of  her 
movements,  and  twice  ventured  upon  joining  her  on  the 
street,  but  each  time,  after  they  had  walked  a  short  dis- 
tance, she  quitted  him  at  the  door  of  a  store  with  a 
polite  "  Good  morning"  that  forbad  his  lingering.  On 
the  second  of  these  unsatisfactory  encounters,  she  in- 
formed him  that  she  was  about  leaving  town  to  visit  Mrs. 
Clarkson,  and  two  days  afterwards  he  heard  of  her  depar- 
ture. 

From  that  moment  he  was  restlessly  desirous  of  fol- 
lowing her,  not  that  he  had  any  definite  plans  of  action, 
or  hopes  of  what  might  be  gained  by  persisting  in  his 


1  j6  Southwold. 

evidently  disagreeable  attentions,  but  he  had  a  vague 
idea  that  some  unforeseen  event  might  possibly  occur  to 
throw  Medora  once  more  within  his  power.  Relying 
with  miserable  vanity  upon  his  personal  influence,  he 
imagined  that  much  might  be  accomplished  to  retard, 
at  least,  if  not  wholly  to  prevent  her  union  with  Floyd. 
It  is  doubtful  whether  he  would  ever  have  succeeded  in 
originating  a  plausible  excuse  for  establishing  himself  in 
her  neighborhood  had  not  accident  favored  him  just  as 
he  was  almost  despairing. 

He  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Ashley,  who  was  a  dis- 
tant relative  of  his  wife's,  urging  him  to  come  to  Ash 
Grove  with  "Lucy  and  the  baby,"  as  they  trusted  the 
change  might  benefit  her.  The  returning  mail  carried 
his  answer,  in  which  he  accepted  the  invitation  for  him- 
self, while  "deeply  regretting  that  the  state  of  Mrs. 
Lascelles'  health  would  not  at  present  admit  of  her 
leaving  home." 

After  having  despatched  the  reply  beyond  all  possibility 
of  recall,  and  completed  every  arrangement  for  leaving, 
he  went  to  inform  his  wife  of  his  proposed  departure. 
He  had  postponed  this  interview  thus  late  because  he 
dreaded  it  a  little,  as  he  expected  that  she  would  oppose 
his  going.  He  entered  the  darkened  room  rather  ner- 
vously. At  his  appearance  Mrs.  Hartly  rose  from  her 
place  at  Lucy's  pillow,  and  he  was  left  alone  with  his 
wife.  Approaching  the  bed  he  was  somewhat  startled 
by  her  extremely  fragile  appearance,  but  it  did  not  suit 
his  plans  to  notice  it,  and  he  said  cheerfully, 

"  Well,  Lucy,  I  have  come  to  bid  you  good 
bye." 

"  Good  bye !  are  you  going  to  leave  me,  Walter  ?" 


Southwold.  1 77 

she  asked  in  a  low,  hollow  voice,  and  with  a  sudden  look 
of  pain. 

"  Yes,  I  intend  to  run  up  the  river  for  a  short  visit  at 
the  Ashleys  ;  they  asked  you  to  come  too,  but  I 
wrote  that  you  were  not  well  enough." 

Alas !  for  his  poor  wife,  she  remembered  instantly 
that  Ash  Grove  was  very  near  Lazy-Bank,  where  her 
dreaded  rival  was  staying.  She  suspected  that  to  be  his 
real  reason  for  leaving  her,  and  the  tears  which  she  was 
too  weak  to  repress  started  to  her  eyes  as  she  faltered — 

"Oh,  Walter,  do  not  go  away  now;  I  am  so  ill  that  I 
cannot  bear  it." 

"  Nonsense,  Lucy !"  replied  her  husband  impatiently. 
"  You  shut  yourself  up  here,  until  it  really  makes  you 
sick ;  if  you  would  only  go  out,  now  that  it  is  warm, 
you  would  soon  be  well." 

"  "Walter !"  said  Lucy  solemnly,  looking  at  him  with 
her  sad,  soft  eyes :  "  Walter,  I  shall  never  be  well  again ; 
I  am  dying." 

He  was  a  good  deal  startled,  and  answered  hastily — 

"Don't  say  that,  Lucy — don't  say  that!" 

"  Oh,  Walter !  oh,  my  own  dear  husband !"  exclaimed 
Lucy,  with  sudden  energy  seizing  his  hand.  "  Do  not 
leave  me  now,  it  is  but  a  short  time  I  have  to  live ; 
only  stay  with  me,  only  tell  me  that  you  love  me  a 
little." 

The  imploring  look  and  tone  touched  him ;  something 
like  contrition  and  repentance  crept  into  his  cold  heart. 
He  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  with  more  tenderness 
than  he  had  shown  in  a  long  time.  She  clung  around 
his  neck,  exclaiming — 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you !  Dearest  Walter,  you  make 
8* 


1 78  Southwold. 

me  so  happy,  I  love  you  so  much !  I  do  not  care  for 
illness,  if  you  only  are  kind  !" 

Perhaps  he  might  have  yielded  to  her  entreaties  and 
remained,  but  at  that  moment  a  feeble  wail  was  heard 
from  the  adjoining  room,  and  the  nurse  entered,  bring- 
ing the  child.  When  she  saw  them  approaching,  Lucy 
released  her  hold  of  her  husband,  and  stretched  out  her 
hand  to  take  the  infant,  while  a  bright  smile  of  maternal 
love  shed  its  halo  over  her  wan  face,  giving  her  a  mo- 
mentary appearance  of  renewed  health.  Somewhat 
reassured  by  this,  Lascelles  rose. 

"  Well,  Lucy,  the  baby  will  atone  for  my  absence.  I 
really  must  go.  Good-bye !"  he  quitted  the  room,  per- 
haps not  hearing,  certainly  not  heeding,  the  wild,  im- 
ploring cry — 

"Walter!  Walter!  Walter!"  until  her  voice  sank 
into  a  whisper. 

Mrs.  Hartly  hurriedly  returned,  finding  the  patient 
convulsed  with  sobs ;  much  alarmed,  she  entreated  her 
to  be  calm. 

"  No,  no !"  cried  Lucy  passionately ;  "  he  has  gone ! 
he  leaves  me  alone,  to  follow  that  detestable  woman. 
No,  no  !  I  will  not  be  quiet !  I  do  not  care  if  it  does 
kill  me !" 

"Lucy,"  said  Mrs.  Hartly  gently,  "remember  your 
child." 

She  checked  her  sobs  a  little  at  this,  and  pressed  her 
infant  to  her  bosom,  covering  it  with  trembling,  pas- 
sionate kisses.  Then  Mrs.  Hartly  urged  upon  the  poor, 
heart-stricken  woman  all  those  words  of  consolation,  of 
which  she  herself  so  well  knew  the  power,  and  succeeded 
at  last  in  soothing  her  into  calmness.  Yet  it  was  but 


Southwold. 


179 


too  evident  that  this  violent  emotion  had  been  most 
dangerous  in  its  effects  upon  her  already  enfeebled 
condition. 

The  unhappiness  he  left  behind  him,  did  not  weigh 
long  on  Lascelles'  spirits,  and  he  arrived  at  Mr.  Ashley's 
exultant  with  the  thought  of  his  proximity  to  Medora. 
He  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  to  make  an  agreeable 
impression,  and  succeeded  as  well  as  he  ever  could,  for 
even  in  his  moments  of  the  utmost  suavity  there  was  a 
sinister  look  in  his  eyes  and  a  jarring  hollowness  in  his 
laugh,  that  filled  you  with  a  vague  uneasiness. 

One  day  of  devotion  to  his  fair  cousins  secured  him  a 
few  moments  of  liberty  the  following  morning,  of  which 
he  availed  himself  to  take  a  solitary  walk. 

Bright  June,  crowned  with  roses  and  laden  with 
strawberries,  smiled  upon  the  earth,  and  all  nature 
laughed  back  a  glad  response.  With  keen  sensuality 
Lascelles  really  enjoyed  the  sweet  sights  and  smells 
around  him;  and  arrived  at  Lazy-Bank,  his  cheeks 
flushed,  and  his  eyes  sparkling  with  a  feeling  of  renewed 
health  and  vigor. 

It  would  have  been  at  that  moment  difficult  to  dis- 
cover a  more  astonished  person  than  Mrs.  Clarkson, 
when  from  the  piazza  she  beheld  him  coming  up  the 
avenue.  She  was  so  far  startled  out  of  her  ordinary 
tact  as  to  accompany  her  surprised  greeting  with  the 
mal-d-propos  inquiry, — 

"  Where  is  your  wife  ?" 

"  I  left  her  in  New  York,"  replied  Lascelles,  a  little 
confused.  "  I  am  only  here  for  a  few  days  on  business," 
he  added,  with  ready  mendacity. 

Mrs.  Clarkson  conducted  him  into  the  little  morning 


1 80  Southwold. 

room,  where  Hedora  was  seated,  who  had  heard  his 
voice  a  few  moments  before,  with  a  sudden  start,  but 
she  was  perfectly  calm  and  self-possessed  when  he 
entered,  greeting  him  with  apparently  the  utmost  indif- 
ference. Lascelles  had  already  learned  that  any  direct 
avowals  were  entirely  useless,  and  his  object  now  being 
to  restore  her  confidence  in  the  propriety  of  his  conduct, 
that  she  might  once  more  permit  his  attentions,  he  was 
careful  to  maintain  a  conversation  of  mere  common- 
places, even  when  Mrs.  Clarkson  excused  herself,  and 
they  were  left  alone. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Mr.  Southwold,  riding  over  to 
Lazy-Bank  to  pay  a  call  of  courtesy  to  his  nephew's 
fiancee,  found  Lascelles  and  Medora  still  ttte-d-tete  in 
the  boudoir.  He  was  somewhat  surprised  at  the  combi- 
nation, especially  when  he  was  presented  to  the  gentle- 
man, and  identified  him  as  the  son-in-law  of  Mr.  Went- 
worth,  of  whom  he  had  heard,  but  whom  he  had  never 
before  met.  With  keen  watchfulness,  he  was  instantly 
on  the  alert,  to  see  if  there  was  anything  more  between 
them  than  appeared  at  the  first  glance. 

"  Has  it  been  gay  here  this  spring  ?"  inquired  Medora, 
after  an  awkward  pause. 

ME.  SOUTHWOLD. — "No,  we  are  waiting  for  Mrs.  Clark- 
son  to  begin  the  season  with  one  of  her  delightful  parties." 

LASCELLES. — "It  certainly  could  not  have  a  more 
auspicious  opening.  Her  entertainments  are  always 
charming." 

ME.  SOUTHWOLD. — "  Yes,  I  think  her  ball  last  winter 
was  much  the  most  brilliant  at  which  I  was  present." 

LASCELLES. — "  I  was  not  there,  but  the  one  she  gave  a 
year  ago  was  generally  considered  a  great  success." 


Southwold.  181 

He  could  not  forbear  a  stolen  glance  at  Medora  as 
he  spoke,  and  despite  all  her  self-possession,  as  the  scene 
of  that  evening  rushed  to  her  memory,  a  momentary 
flush  overspread  her  face.  Mr.  Southwold  caught  both 
the  look  and  the  blush,  and  convinced  that  there  was 
some  mystery  here,  he  followed  up  his  suspicions  by 
saying — 

"  Perhaps,  Mr.  Lascelles,  you  have  some  peculiarly 
agreeable  associations  with  it.  If  I  recollect  aright,  it 
occurred  just  before  you  were  married.  When — what  is 
Moore  says  ? 

"  '  There's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream.'  " 

Medora  had  entirely  recovered  herself,  and  added 
calmly : 

"  Yes,  I  remember,  that  was  the  first  time  that  I  heard 
of  Mr.  Lascelles'  engagement." 

Lascelles  gave  a  short  forced  laugh,  that  wrinkled  his 
face  into  the  very  incarnation  of  everything  that  was 
sinister,  as  he  endeavored  to  reply  carelessly : 

"  Yes,  it  is  but  little  over  a  year  since  I  was  married." 

Mr.  Southwold  was  not  deceived  by  this,  he  was  only 
confirmed  in  his  suspicions,  and  he  mentally  determined 
not  to  lose  so  good  an  occasion  for  sowing  the  seeds  of 
distrust  in  his  nephew's  heart. 

All  this  Medora's  quick  perceptions  detected.  She  was 
uneasily  fearful  of  the  consequences  of  the  unfortunate 
meeting.  Evidently  Mr.  Southwold  was  a  formidable 
antagonist.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  This  question 
plunged  her  into  thought,  as  profound  as  ever  exer- 
cised the  crafty  brain  of  the  unscrupulous  Borgia. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"  An  unquestioning  faith  is  an  excellent  shield  for  defence,  but  a 
poor  weapon  of  attack. 

OUR  COLLEGE. 

"  Is  there  a  heaven,  and  Gods ;  and  can  it  be, 
They  should  so  slowly  hear,  so  slowly  see  ?" 

Catiline. — BEN  JOXSON. 

FLOYD  had  passed  a  most  delightful  month  at  Strat- 
ford. His  mother  listened  with  untiring  interest  to 
his  enthusiastic  praises  of  Medora's  beauty,  banishing 
every  selfish  and  jealous  feeling  in  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
his  happiness.  When  he  had  fully  explained  to  her  the 
position  in  which  he  stood  with  regard  to  his  uncle  and 
his  ladye-love,  Mrs.  Southwold  at  once  urged  upon  him 
the  advantages  of  the  course  which  his  own  honorable 
feelings  pointed  out,  that  he  should  immediately  begin 
the  labors  by  which  he  hoped  to  win  independence.  In- 
deed she  could  not  repress  a  secret  joy  at  the  thought, 
that  should  he  resign  his  home  at  Southwold,  she  might 
once  more  be  his  constant  companion  and  adviser. 
Floyd  fully  concurred  in  her  views ;  and  when  he  quit- 
ted her,  had  determined  to  delay  no  longer  his  pre- 
parations for  the  future,  and  to  permit  himself  not  more 
than  a  single  fortnight  at  his  uncle's. 


South  wold.  183 

During  his  entire  stay  he  did  not  see  Nannie  ;  she  left 
for  her  home  before  his  arrival,  and  did  not  return  until 
after  he  left.  He  never  suspected  her  secret,  which  her 
aunt,  with  honorable  care,  guarded,  as  if  it  had  been  her 
own. 

He  had  solaced  his  absence  from  Medora,  as  lovers 
are  wont,  by  writing  long  passionate  letters,  to  which  she 
replied  as  tenderly  as  he  could  wish.  As  soon  as  he  was 
informed  of  her  arrival  at  Lazy-Bank  he  was  impatient 
to  be  at  Southwold,  yet  he  would  not  curtail  the  pro- 
mised period  of  his  visit  to  his  mother,  so  that  a  week 
had  elapsed  before  he  reached  there.  Then  chancing 
to  arrive  by  a  train  in  which  he  was  not  expected,  he 
found  his  uncle  out,  and  rode  at  once  to  Lazy-Bank, 
without  awaiting  his  return. 

The  short  period  of  his  absence  from  his  ladye-love 
had  seemed  an  age  to  him,  and  he  met  her  again,  raptu- 
rous as  the  Hindu  Rama,  when  he  embraced  Siva,  after 
a  separation  of  a  thousand  years. 

Medora,  who  was  full  of  uneasiness  since  that  en- 
counter with  Mr.  Southwold  of  the  preceding  day,  was 
somewhat  relieved  to  hear  that  Floyd  had  not  yet  seen 
his  uncle,  although  a  new  cause  of  anxiety  suggested 
itself  when  he  spoke  of  his  mother's  counsels,  and  an- 
nounced his  resolution  of  only  remaining  at  Southwold 
a  short  time,  and  then  addressing  himself  to  the  study 
of  his  profession. 

.She  had  no  time  to  discuss  this  proposal  at  length,  for 
he  could  not  linger  long,  as  courtesy  demanded  that  he 
should  announce  his  arrival  to  his  uncle;  and  after  a 
happy  half  hour,  therefore,  he  departed  full  of  blissful 
thoughts. 


184  South  wold. 

Yet,  he  had  not  been  long  with  Mr.  Southwold  when 
a  few  careless  words  rudely  awoke  him  from  his  bright 
dreams,  accompanied  as  they  were  with  the  singular 
question — 

"  By  the  way,  was  Miss  Fielding  ever  engaged  to  Mr. 
Lascelles?" 

Floyd's  indignant  denials  failed  to  reassure  even  him- 
self. He  was  wretched  till  he  saw  Medora  again,  and 
then  it  needed  all  the  eloquent  protestations  of  which 
she  was  mistress,  to  lull  him  once  more  into  his  former 
affectionate  trust. 

This  incident  proved  to  her,  that  her  apprehensions 
concerning  Mr.  Southwold's  hostile  opposition  were  by 
no  means  without  foundation,  and  rendered  her  more 
impatient  of  her  trying  situation,  and  more  fully  alive  to 
its  dangers.  She  could  think  of  no  possible  extrication 
from  her  embarrassments.  Very  soon,  unless  some  new 
combination  occurred,  Floyd  would  be  removed  wholly 
beyond  the  sphere  of  her  influence,  and  meantime  she 
was  subjected  to  a  most  annoying  espionage. 

It  was  impossible  for  her  to  avoid  meeting  Lascelles. 
He  came  constantly  to  the  house,  and  without  assigning 
some  reason  she  could  not  help  treating  him  politely, 
although  she  felt  that  he  was  watching  her  eagerly,  only 
waiting  an  opportunity  and  a  pretext  for  renewing  his 
annoying  importunities.  Mr.  Southwold  regarded  her 
closely,  in  hopes  of  finding  some  flaw  that  might  open 
his  nephew's  eyes  to  her  true  character,  wrhilst  Floyd 
followed  with  loving  attention  her  every  word  and 
gesture. 

To  a  thoroughly  virtuous  heart,  the  escape  from  these 
difficulties  would  have  been  simple.  An  open  avowal  to 


South  wold.  185 

her  lover  of  the  whole  history  of  her  entanglement  with 
Lascelles  would  at  once  have  rid  her  of  his  unfortunate 
presence,  and  rendered  Mr.  Southwold's  insinuations 
unavailing.  This  course  never  suggested  itself  to  Medora ; 
she  was  only  desperately  resolute  to  remove  from  her 
path  all  obstacles  to  success  by  the  first  means  that  cir- 
cumstances suggested,  no  matter  how  unscrupulous. 
Regarding  Mr.  Southwold  as  her  most  formidable 
antagonist,  she  often  fiercely  longed  to  have  him  once 
securely  within  her  power. 

Her  harassing  situation  rendered  her  more  than 
usually  cynical  and  impatient  in  her  conversation,  and 
she  rarely  met  Floyd  without  uttering  some  sentiment 
that  raised  a  cloud  on  his  brow  which  was  only  dispelled 
by  her  endearments  and  caresses.  Thus  far,  these  all- 
powerful  weapons  in  the  hands  of  a  beautiful  woman 
had  never  failed  of  success,  and  she  often  exulted  in  the 
thought  that  his  affection  remained  unchanged  and  un- 
changeable. 

One  morning  Floyd  and  Medora  sat  in  the  bou- 
doir, where  so  many  happy  hours  had  been  spent. 
They  had  been  speaking  of  the  late  failure  of  a  large 
banking-house  which  had  recently  been  announced. 

"When  I  first  heard  of  it,"  said  Floyd,  "I  was  a  good 
deal  concerned  for  one  of  my  Stratford  friends,  a  poor 
man,  who  could  ill  afford  to  lose  his  money,  and  who 
I  knew  had  always  kept  his  accounts  with  Har court — 
but  it  seems  that  for  some  unaccountable  reason  he  had 
drawn  out  his  balance  only  two  days  before  the  crash." 

"  That  was  fortunate." 

"  How  strange  are  such  apparently  unfounded  pre- 
sentiments !"  said  Floyd,  musingly. 


i86  South  wold. 

"  They  are  what  some  persons  would  call  '  Special 
Providences.' " 

"  Certainly,"  exclaimed  Floyd,  surprised ;  "  do  you 
not  regard  them  in  that  light  ?" 

"I?  no  indeed !  I  have  very  little  patience  with  that 
favorite  doctrine  of  the  superstitious." 

"  I  consider  it,"  replied  Floyd  gravely,  "  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  consoling  points  of  faith." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  agree  with  you,"  said  Medora, 
impatiently,  "  but  unfortunately  I  have  seen  too  much 
of  the  absurdities  to  which  such  a  belief  leads.  Why 
there  are  my  aunts,  the  Misses  Clinton,  they  regard 
everything  as  Providential,  from  the  death  of  a  friend  to 
the  hiring  of  a  new  scullion !" 

"  But  of  course  it  is  almost  impious  to  apply  so  sacred 
a  word  to  trifles." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  it  seems  to  me,  that  to  the 
Almighty  there  must  be  very  little  difference  between 
the  care  of  a  few  thousands,  and  the  character  of  a  ser- 
vant. In  His  eyes  both  concerns  must  be  equally  insig- 
nificant." 

"  What,  do  you  not  believe  that  He  who  heeds  every 
'  sparrow  that  falleth  to  the  ground,'  does  not  carefully 
guard  even  our  slightest  act  and  deed  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know.  It  is  to  me  an  immense  audacity  to 
hope  it,  and  a  thought  too  stupendous  for  realization." 

"  But  you  forget  that  God  is  omnipotent." 

"To  a  certain  point,  yes,  but  even  His  power  has 
limits.  He  can  never  make  two  and  two  more  or  less 
than  four,  or  alter  any  other  mathematical  truth." 

"No,  but  remember  that  He  made  the  laws  upon 
which  their  existence  depends." 


Southwold.  1 87 

"Perhaps  so,  but  after  all  it  is  almost  inconceivable 
that  He  can  work  such  results  as  are  attributed  to  Him 
when  you  reflect  that  necessarily  He  lives  as  we  do,  mo- 
ment by  moment." 

"  Not  at  all,  the  existence  of  the  Almighty  is  infi- 
nite." 

"  What !  Is  it  conceivable  that  He  can  live  in  the 
past,  which  is  of  course  hopelessly  gone,  or  in  the  future 
which  has  not  yet  come  ?  Manifestly  not.  He  may  pos- 
sess omniscient  memory  and  prescience,  but  He  cannot 
actually  be  except  at  this  present  second  of  time." 

"  Yet  it  seems  a  species  of  insult  to  Deity,  to  suppose 
His  existence  is  as  limited  as  our  own." 

"  I  will  give  you  authority  for  it,  which  to  you  should 
be  unanswerable.  What  else  does  this  expression  sig- 
nify :  I  am  the  great  Jehovah,  '  which  was,  and  is,  and  is 
to  come  ?'  A  measureless  immortality,  certainly,  but 
one  that  is  bounded  by  seconds." 

"  Medora !  sometimes  you  seem  to  me  a  fearful  wo- 
man !  Why  did  you  say  just  now,  '  authority  that  to 
me  must  be  unanswerable  ?'  Do  not  you  believe  in  the 
Bible?" 

"  Relieve  !  Did  you  ever  reflect  how  carelessly  that 
word  is  used  ?  My  dear  friend,  I  have  been  educated  to 
regard  the  Bible  as  inspired,  but  I  am  not  yet  prepared 
to  say  whether,  on  my  own  deliberate  investigation,  I 
credit  its  every  word." 

Floyd,  exceedingly  displeased  and  shocked,  and  very 
desirous  to  close  this  distasteful  discussion,  rose,  exclaim- 
ing impetuously,  "  Stop !  stop,  Medora,  you  chill  me  to 
the  heart  when  you  speak  thus." 

Medora,  alarmed  at  his  tone,  making  haste  to  soothe 


i88  Southwold. 

his  indignation,  said  sadly,  "Floyd,  I  would  give  very 
much, — more  than  I  can  express — for  an  unquestioning 
faith.  Hereafter,  when  I  am  constantly  with  you,  will 
you  have  the  patience  to  teach  me  ah1  in  which  I  am  so 
deficient?" 

This  question  restored  him  to  her  side,  though  still 
full  of  gentle  chidings  and  earnest  entreaties  to  the  dar- 
ing girl  to  give  up  this  flippant  cavilling  and  defiant  in- 
credulity, and  seek  with  humble  trust  the  only  certain 
hope  of  everlasting  peace. 

This  conversation  was  but  a  prototype  of  many  that 
followed,  all,  however,  terminating  in  the  same  way. 
Floyd,  with  the  delicacy  of  a  true  gentleman,  was  al- 
ways extremely  averse  to  an  argument  with  a  lady, 
especially  on  religion  ;  convinced  that  drawing-room  po- 
lemics were  not  calculated  either  to  convince  or  to  con- 
vert, and  that  controversy  was  more  apt  to  fix  than  to 
eradicate  any  erroneous  views. 

However  bold  and  even  unfeminine  Medora  was  in 
her  opinions,  she  was  ever  irresistible  when  she  laid 
aside  the  sophistical  logician  for  the  fascinating  woman. 
Feeling  this,  she  grew  every  day  more  confident  in  her 
power  over  her  lover,  and  noting  his  untiring  devotion, 
exulted  in  the  thought  that  her  empire  could  never  be 
successfully  disputed. 

So  the  moments  of  that  fortnight  flowed  on  silver 
waves  in  the  river  of  Time.  For,  despite  the  occasional 
clouds,  these  were  halcyon  days  to  Floyd,  and  long 
afterwards  the  brightest  spot  in  his  heart's  history  was 
the  halo  that  lingered  around  their  memory. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"  Come  andando  infinite  anime  di  quelli  miseri  mortalli  che  nella 
disgrazia  di  Dio  morivano,  allo  inferno  tutte,  o  la  maggior  parte  si  do- 
levano  non  per  altro  che  per  aver  tolta  moglie  essersi  a  tanta  infelicita- 
condotte." 

Novella  de  Belfajor. — NICOLO  MACHIAVELLL 

"  So  shall  you  hear 


Of  accidental  judgments,  casual  slaughters ; 
Of  deaths  put  on  by  cunning  and  forced  cause, 
And  in  this  upshot,  purposes  mistook, 
Fall'n  on  the  inventors'  heads." 

Hamlet. — SHAKSPEARE. 


FINDING  that  mere  insinuation  was  powerless  to  shake 
Floyd's  allegiance  to  his  beautiful  mistress,  Mr.  South- 
wold  determined  to  give  him  some  convincing  proof 
that  his  suspicions  were  not  wholly  without  foundation. 
In  order  to  effect  this  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that 
his  nephew  should  see  Lascelles  and  Medora  together. 
This  seemed  a  combination  very  unlikely  to  occur,  as, 
although  he  was  himself  satisfied,  from  several  trifling 
circumstances,  that  Lascelles  was  a  constant  visitor  at 
Lazy-Bank,  it  was  very  evident  that  he  always  disap- 
peared before  Floyd's  arrival. 

There  was  even  little  probability  of  their  meeting  at 


i  (jo  South  wold. 

any  gay  entertainment,  as  Lascelles'  mourning  would 
prevent  him  from  accepting  an  invitation  to  anything 
larger  than  a  dinner-party.  As  this  thought  presented 
itself,  Mr.  Southwold  determined  that  he  would  not 
allow  even  the  slender  chance  of  the  possible  result  of 
such  an  encounter  to  escape  him.  Accordingly,  with 
Floyd's  pleased  concurrence,  he  invited  the  Ashleys, 
with  Lascelles,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clarkson,  and  Medora,  to 
dine  at  Southwold. 

As  yet  there  had  been  no  really  warm  weather,  and 
as  it  was  but  an  informal  party,  his  ordinary  dinner  hour 
of  four  o'clock  was  not  altered.  The  long  drawing-room 
was  perfumed  with  roses,  and  the  drawn  shades  toned 
the  too  brilliant  sunlight  to  a  mellow  glow,  when  the 
first  guests  arrived.  It  was  the  party  from  Ashgrove, 
and  Mr.  Southwold  was  struck  with  an  appearance  of 
restlessness  and  excitement  in  Lascelles'  manner.  He 
was  instantly  on  the  alert  to  learn  the  cause,  and  when 
it  only  appeared,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  that  he 
had  taken  a  lonely  drive  that  morning,  with  a  view  to 
discovering  where,  Mr.  Southwold  said — 

"  We  have  many  fine  points  of  view  about  us.  I  trust, 
Mr.  Lascelles,  that  you  turned  your  horse's  steps  in  some 
pleasant  direction." 

"  I  only  went  to  the  village  and  back,"  he  answered 
hastily,  "  I  had  no  time  for  more." 

"I  beg  pardon,"  rejoined  Mr.  Southwold,  "I  fancied 
it  was  a  mere  trip  in  search  of  the  beautiful.  Oh ! 
here  are  Mrs.  Clarkson  and  Miss  Fielding." 

He  saw  that  Lascelles  changed  color  a  little  as  he 
turned  to  Medora,  but  to  his  annoyance  Floyd  was  too 
absorbed  to  notice  it. 


Southwold.  igi 

When  the  servant  announced  dinner,  Mr.  Southwold 
requested  Lascelles  to  lead  her  out,  himself  offering  his 
arm  to  Mrs.  Clarkson  and  giving  her  the  head  of  the 
table.  Taking  the  foot,  he  placed  Medora  at  his  right 
hand,  with  Floyd  and  one  of  the  Misses  Ashley 
opposite. 

The  first  courses  went  on  much  as  usual,  with  very 
little  conversation.  Medora  evidently  did  not  like  her 
situation,  and  carefully  avoided  anything  more  than 
commonplaces  with  her  companion  until  the  arrival  of 
dessert,  when  the  talking  became  louder  and  she  insensi- 
bly fell  into  a.  discussion  with  Lascelles.  Observing, 
however,  Mr.  Southwold  and  Floyd  looking  earnestly 
at  her,  she  instantly  turned  to  the  former  and  ex- 
plained— 

"  We  were  speaking  of  Harcourt's  unfortunate  failure." 

Mi;.  SOUTHWOLD. — "Poor  fellow!  I  believe  it  was 
very  disastrous." 

LASCELLES. — "  They  say  it  was  all  his  wife's  fault." 

MEDORA,  indignantly. — "  Of  course  they  do.  No 
man  ever  does  anything  wrong  or  foolish  that  people  do 
not  blame  either  his  wife  or  mother." 

MR.  S. — "  And  generally  with  great  justice.  I  must 
confess  I  coincide  entirely  in  the  sentiment  of  that  east- 
ern monarch  who  inquired  when  anything  untoward 
occurred,  '  What  woman  did  this  ?' " 

M. — "  There  is  one  consolation  in  that  view  of  affairs. 
You  accord  an  enormous  amount  of  influence  and 
responsibility  to  us  ladies." 

MR.  S. — "Unfortunately  for  the  world  such  is  un- 
doubtedly the  case." 

M.,  excitedly. — "  Unfortunately  ?» 


1 92  Southwold. 

ME.  S. — "  Yes !  for  the  fascinations  of  your  sex,  and 
their  many  amiable  qualities,  give  them  a  power  over 
ours  which  they  are  too  much  creatures  of  feeling  to 
wield  judiciously." 

Medora  was  a  little  provoked,  but  she  fancied  this 
might  have  been  said  to  draw  her  out,  and  therefore 
resorted  to  what  was  with  her  a  favorite  mode  of 
closing  a  controversy, — a  quotation. 

"I  see,  Mr.  Southwold,  that  you  agree  with  Lord 
Chesterfield's  heterodox  sentiment,  '  Women  are  only 
children  of  a  larger  growth.' " 

She  had,  however,  an  antagonist  who  was  not  easily 
silenced,  for  he  replied  instantly,  "  I  go  farther  than  that, 
and  say  with  La  Rochefoucauld,  '  X?  esprit  de  la  plupart 
des  femmes  sert  plus  d  fortifier  leur  folie  gue  leur 
raison?  " 

Medora  was  beaten  with  her  own  weapons,  and 
although  sufficiently  mistress  of  herself  to  betray  no 
annoyance,  as  Mr.  Southwold  had  hoped,  she  rose  from 
the  table  with  a  feeling  of  mortal  aversion  to  that  self- 
complacent  old  man,  who  stood  in  the  way  of  her  suc- 
cess and  thwarted  her  at  every  turn. 

At  a  bachelor's  party  there  is  rarely  any  restraint,  and 
hah0  an  hour  after  dinner  the  guests  were  amusing  them- 
selves each  one  as  they  saw  fit.  Mrs.  Clarkson  and  the 
Misses  Ashley  formed  a  group  around  the  piano,  the 
gentlemen  strolling  about  with  their  cigars.  No  one 
was  surprised  that  Mr.  Southwold  and  Lascelles  went 
off  to  view  the  recent  improvements.  The  penetrating 
old  gentleman  had  urged  this  walk  upon  his  companion 
with  the  intention  of  discovering,  if  possible,  how  far  his 
suspicions  with  regard  to  his  former  intimacy  with  Miss 


South  wold.  1 93 

Fielding  were  correct,  and  of  finding  some  clue  to  his 
embarrassment  in  regard  to  the  morning's  ride.  They 
had  not  been  gone  long  when  Floyd  and  Medora  followed 
their  example  and  started  for  a  stroll. 

The  quiet  hush  of  summer  twilight  was  gathering 
around  them  as  they  reached  the  shore  of  the  river. 
They  came  out  upon  a  high  bank  which  had  been  cut 
into  by  the  railroad,  leaving  a  great  mass  of  rocks  and 
bushes  on  its  outer  side.  It  was  here  that  Mr.  Southwold 
had  planted  his  most  successful  screen,  so  that,  in  the 
direction  of  the  house  until  you  came  quite  to  the  edge 
of  the  chasm,  it  was  impossible  to  guess  that  the  original 
symmetry  of  the  hill  had  been  disfigured  by  the  huge 
excavation  with  its  almost  perpendicular  rocky  sides. 

The  lovers  looked  out  on  the  river,  now  rapidly  shroud- 
ing in  shadow — the  grey  hills  opposite  frowning  gloomily, 
— and  the  village  at  their  base,  where  a  few  straggling 
lights  already  gleamed  through  the  increasing  darkness. 
Medora's  hand  rested  in  Floyd's.  Their  conversation 
had  ceased,  and  they  stood  there  enjoying  that  delicious 
stillness  that  is  not  silence,  so  suggestive  of  the  myriad 
forms  of  summer  life.  This  sweet  calm  was  rudely 
broken  by  the  shriek  of  an  approaching  railroad  train, 
and  a  moment  after  the  voice  of  Mr.  Southwold,  from 
the  other  side  of  the  deep  cut,  exclaimed  : 

"  That  is  a  jarring  discord  to  disturb  the  harmonies 
of  such  an  hour,  and  such  a  scene." 

"  Why !  Uncle,  are  you  there  ?"  said  Floyd,  a  little 
startled. 

"  Yes !  Mr.  Lascelles  was  with  me,  but  I  believe  he 
has  gone  back  to  the  house.  Indeed,  I  think  it  is  time 
we  should  all  return." 


1 94  South  wold. 

As  he  spoke  they  saw  the  boughs  of  a  thick  bush, 
opposite,  tremble  for  an  instant,  as  if  some  one  was 
pressing  against  them;  it  was  so  near  the  edge  that 
Floyd  hi  alarm  cried  out : 

"  Take  care  ! " 

The  warning  came  too  late, — perhaps  indeed  the  sud- 
den start  which  followed  the  words  was  itself  fatal.  The 
bush,  as  if  overborne  by  some  great  weight,  swayed 
above  the  yawning  chasm — then  its  branches  parted, — 
there  was  a  sharp  crash,  a  wild  shriek — and  Mr.  South- 
wold  fell  headlong  down  the  steep  rocks,  striking  on  the 
sandy  track  below  with  that  horrible  crashing  sound  that 
tells  of  shattered  bones  and  mangled  flesh.  For  one 
awful  instant  there  was  heard  no  word  or  voice,  only  the 
roaring  noise  of  the  approaching  train,  that  swept  steadily 
on,  and  in  another  moment  would  pass  over  that  pros- 
trate form.  Then  the  air  was  rent  with  a  sharp  fearful 
cry: 

"  Floyd  !  Floyd  !  Floyd,  for  God's  sake  help  me ! 
I  am  dreadfully  injured.  I  cannot  move.  I  shall  be 
killed!" 

During  that  first  interval  of  silence  Medora's  heart 
was  full  of  an  exultant  joy  as  she  thought  that  the  "only 
obstacle  between  herself  and  fortune  was  removed. 
When  she  heard  those  words  and  knew  that  the  old 
man,  she  detested,  still  lived,  with  a  sudden  revengeful 
desperation  she  wound  her  arms  around  her  lover  and 
hissed  in  his  ear : 

"  Are  you  mad  ?     Let  him  die ! " 

Again  from  out  that  dark  chasm,  which  already  the 
gathering  shades  shrouded  in  obscurity,  came  those 
heart-rending  shrieks — 


South  wold.  195 

"  Floyd !  Floyd !  Floyd !     Help  me  !  Help  me  !" 

All  the  stern  dignity  of  that  stricken  man  was  gone ; 
there  was  a  supplicatory  tone  in  his  hoarse  voice  that 
was  piteous  to  hear,  as  he  lay  there  powerless  in  present 
anguish,  and  the  awful  fear  of  that  swiftly  approaching 
death. 

His  horrified  nephew  writhed  in  the  clinging  grasp  of 
those  strong  white  arms. 

"  Let  me  go,  murderess  !     Let  me  go !" 

In  his  agony  he  cursed  that  remorseless  woman,  and 
with  a  desperate  effort  wrenched  himself  free  from  that 
fearful  embrace. 

Too  late !  Too  late  !  He  dashed  down  the  steep  hill, 
but  a  long  line  of  light  flashed  through  the  darkness — 
one  awful  shriek  that  rang  out  even  above  the  rush  and 
roar,  and  the  resistless  train  rolled  on,  and  was  lost  in 
the  black  night. 

Down  in  that  fatal  chasm  Floyd  found  no  living  thing — 
only  the  sickening  spectacle  of  the  disjointed  remains  of 
a  human  being  crushed  out  of  existence  like  a  worm. 

Above  on  the  bank,  Medora,  with  white  cheeks  and 
calm  brow,  turned  slowly  away — and  behold  she  stood 
face  to  face  with  Lascelles.  In  his  blanched  counte- 
nance, and  the  triumphant  light  of  his  eyes,  she  read 
that  he  had  been  an  unseen  witness  of  her  frightful 
crime.  At  that  overwhelming  thought  a  strange  giddi- 
ness seized  her.  It  seemed  as  if  reason  was  about  to 
desert  her,  and  with  a  low  cry  she  staggered  forward, 
and  would  have  fallen  had  he  not  encircled  her  in  his 
outstretched  arms.  Seeing  that  she  had  fainted,  and 
was  incapable  of  resistance,  he  pressed  her  to  his  breast 
with  reckless  ardor,  and  in  the  purple  gloom  on  that 


1 96  South  wold. 

lonely  hill  over  which  the  night  wind  moaned  drearily, 
— that  coward  heart  and  that  cruel  heart  beat  side  by 
side. 

Summoned  by  his  cries,  some  workmen  at  last  came 
to  Floyd's  assistance,  and  raised  on  a  rude  litter  that 
shapeless  mass  that  was  all  that  now  remained  of  what 
one  short  hour  before  had  been  a  hale  and  stately  man. 
He  gave  a  few  brief  words  of  explanation,  unsatisfactory 
indeed,  for  he  himself  could  but  guess  what  fatal  acci- 
dent led  to  the  first  catastrophe,  but  instinctively  con- 
cealing the  final  crime.  Then,  in  stern  silence,  he 
accompanied  the  men  who  bore  that  burden  to  the 
house,  never  so  much  as  looking  back  for  the  perpetra- 
tor of  this  fearful  deed. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"And  hot  lips  to  suck  forth 
A  lost  soul  from  me." 

The  'Demon  Lady. — MOTHEBWELL. 

"  Morn,  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morning  star, 
Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold." 

The  Princess. — TENNYSON. 

"  Je  suivois  mon  devoir,  et  vous  cediez  au  votre, 
Rien  ne  vous  engageoit  a  m'aimer  en  effet." 

Andromaque. — RACINE. 

WHEN,  Medora  recovered  from  her  swoon,  she  was 
still  clasped  in  a  passionate  embrace.  She  was  utterly 
bewildered  and  confused,  and  struggled  wildly  to  escape; 
but  Lascelles  pressed  her  tighter,  as  he  whispered — 

"  Now  you  are  mine  for  ever !" 

Recalled  by  these  words  to  horrible  recollection,  and 
stung  by  the  implied  hold  upon  her  that  he  had  just 
obtained,  she  said  haughtily — 

"Even  now  you  shall  not  insult  me  with  impunity." 

"  It  is  scarcely  an  insult,  Medora.  I  am  almost  a 
widower;  I  have  been  telegraphed  to  hasten  home — 
Lucy  is  dying." 

"My  God!"  exclaimed  Medora,  starting  back  with 
horror ;  "  And  you  can  be  here !  and  speak  thus !" 


1 98  Southwold. 

"  I  love  you  so  much,"  murmured  Lascelles. 

"  Stop !"  cried  Medora  indignantly.  "  I  cannot  and  I 
will  not  listen  to  you.  Let  me  go !" 

She  sprang  down  the  hill  and  walked  rapidly  towards 
the  house.  Yet,  as  she  advanced,  her  steps  grew  slower 
and  slower ;  she  was  struggling  desperately  against  the 
overwhelming  thoughts  that  each  moment  grew  more 
intense,  the  horrible  knowledge  that  her  soul  was 
stained  with  a  fearful  crime,  and  that  the  guilt  of  mur- 
der would  cling  to  her  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

With  a  mighty  effort  of  her  dauntless  will,  she  stifled 
back  this  remembrance  to  the  secret  depths  of  her  heart, 
where  it  was  evermore  to  lurk  a  hideous  horror,  that 
would  destroy  all  happiness  and  blast  every  pleasure, 
and  summoned  all  her  fortitude  and  presence  of  mind 
to  her  aid,  to  enable  her  to  meet  unflinchingly  all 
inquiring  glances. 

She  entered  the  house  quietly,  arriving  there  almost 
as  soon  as  Floyd,  in  time  to  corroborate  his  first  hasty 
accounts.  Her  pale  cheeks  and  disordered  dress  excited 
no  remark :  it  was  but  natural  that  the  spectator  of 
such  a  scene  should  be  stunned  with  its  shock. 

Mrs.  Clarkson,  for  once  calmed  into  complete  sobriety, 
gave  a  few-kind  and  judicious  directions  to  the  distracted 
household,  and  then,  as  Medora  appeared  so  overcome 
as  to  require  rest,  she  drove  away. 

Floyd  was  left  alone  with  his  murdered  uncle;  a 
dreadful  sense  of  misery  and  despair  oppressed  him; 
how  willingly  would  he  have  resigned  that  fatal  inheri- 
tance to  restore  life  to  that  shattered  form,  and  to  bring 
back  once  again  the  loving  confidence  that  had  led  him 
to  believe  that  being  an  angel  who  was  in  reality  a  fiend. 


South  wold.  1 99 

Li  this  reflection  was  the  worst  sense  of  his  bereave- 
ment ;  he  had  loved,  with  the  whole  force  of  his  affec- 
tionate nature,  that  beautiful  woman,  and  now  those 
white  hands  were  stained  with  blood — that  virgin  soul 
was  black  with  crime ! 

Hour  after  hour  of  that  long  night  rolled  slowly  away, 
and  he  restlessly  paced  the  floor  of  the  long  drawing- 
room,  where  the  corpse  had  been  laid  out.  Ever  as 
he  glanced  at  that  shrouded  figure,  he  vowed  sternly 
that  his  first  act  should  be  to  free  himself  from  the 
pledge  that  bound  him  to  a  murderess.  He  felt  now  in 
all  their  force  his  uncle's  repeated  warnings,  and  blamed 
his  blind  infatuation  that  they  came  too  late.  He  read 
at  once  the  whole  black  history  of  Medora's  past  con- 
duct ;  he  felt  an  absolute  conviction  that  she  had  never 
loved  him;  trifling  or  forgotten  circumstances  rushed 
to  his  memory  to  strengthen  this  condemning  belief, 
and  perhaps  this  thought,  more  than  any  other,  nerved 
him  to  the  unflinching  determination  to  cast  her  off  for 
ever.  Beyond  that,  he  was  too  overcome  to  venture  to 
look.  Love  was  dead — hope,  he  had  none;  he  would 
gladly  have  lain  down  beside  that  dead  man,  and  slum- 
bered in  the  same  unconsciousness. 

If  that  was  a  fearful  night  to  Floyd,  how  many 
thousand  times  more  so  was  it  to  Medora,  shut  up  alone 
with  the  memory  of  unexpected  and  unforgiven  sin. 
Sleep  never  for  one  instant  visited  her  weary  eyes ;  the 
darkness  was  alive  with  shapes  of  horror ;  the  silence 
was  full  of  appalling  sounds ;  those  despairing  shrieks 
that  had  vainly  called  to  stony  ears,  rang  out  again  and 
again ;  she  seemed  to  see  that  crushed  body,  which  in 
reality  she  had  not  beheld,  in  every  horrible  form  of  muti- 


2oo  Southwold. 

lation,  until  pressing  her  hands  to  her  brow,  she  sprang 
from  the  bed  which  was  no  couch  of  rest  to  her,  and 
leaned  from  the  open  window  to  cool  the  fever  that 
consumed  her. 

Outside  the  stars  glittered  brightly  on  a  world  sleep- 
ing in  calmness  and  peace.  There  was  a  dewy  chill  in 
the  air  that  struck  to  her  heart  like  ice.  Shivering  she 
turned  away,  as  the  thought  came  over  her  of  how  that 
murdered  man  would  lie  in  the  damp  ground,  ever  look- 
ing up  at  the  bright  sun,  the  pale  moon,  and  the  silent 
stars,  calling  down  nameless  curses  on  the  woman  who 
had  banished  him  from  the  beautiful  world  to  that  cold 
resting-place. 

A  strange  bewilderment  crept  over  her  brain ;  the 
gloom  around  oppressed  her  with  unutterable  terror ; 
she  seemed  to  see  it  peopled  with  chattering  demons  and 
gibbering  ghosts ;  and  she,  who  had  never  known  fear, 
hastened  with  trembling  hands  and  quivering  lips  to 
strike  a  light  that  might  dispel  these  imaginary  terrors. 
Reassured  in  a  measure  by  the  rays  of  the  candle, 
which  showed  her  that  she  was  alone  in  her  luxurious 
apartment,  she  smiled  with  scorn  at  her  own  weak- 
ness. 

"Fool!"  she  said,  impatiently;  "surely  I  am  suffi- 
ciently mistress  of  myself  to  cast  aside  these  childish 
apprehensions,  and  contemplate  the  future  with  calm- 
ness?" 

Once  more  she  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  and  began 
to  think  earnestly  of  what  was  next  to  be  done.  Of 
course  she  expected  that  Floyd  would  be  indignant  at 
her  act,  but,  confident  in  those  fascinations  which  had 
so  often  brought  him  to  the  side  when  he  seemed  for  a 


South  wold.  20 1 

moment  shocked  into  coldness,  she  fancied  herself 
secure  of  the  reward  of  her  iniquity. 

She  was  still  pondering  on  the  first  inevitable  inter- 
view which  would  decide  all,  when  the  ruddy  light  of 
summer  morning  stole  into  the  room,  and  she  knew 
that  the  hateful  night  was  past.  Feeling  the  abso- 
lute necessity  of  refreshment  after  her  weary  vigi^ 
she  rose,  and  hastily  dressing  herself,  went  out  for  a 
walk. 

In  the  east  great  masses  of  purple  clouds  lay  piled 
against  the  amber  sky ;  every  blade  of  grass  and  little 
flower  was  heavy  with  clinging  dew,  and  hundreds  of 
faery  webs  sparkled  on  the  lawn.  It  was  very  early ; 
the  great  world  of  men  still  slumbered,  but  all  animated 
nature  was  awake  and  astir.  Everywhere  little  birds 
chanted  their  matin  songs,  and  myriads  of  insects 
hummed  and  buzzed  in  the  bright  morning  air.  Gradu- 
ally the  crimson  of  the  east  faded  into  pale  yellow,  a 
few  slant  sunbeams  tinged  the  hill-tops,  and  then  the 
monarch  of  day  flashed  in  dazzling  glory  on  the  earth. 
The  river,  which  a  moment  before  had  been  liquid  silver, 
was  transmuted  into  burnished  gold,  and  the  dew-drops 
glittered  with  a  thousand  rainbow  hues. 

Very  soon  now  there  would  be  some  one  up  about 
the  house,  and  Medora  returned  to  her  room  with  a 
brain  calmed  and  copied  by  her  early  stroll.  She  made 
an  elaborate  toilette,  and  descended  to  the  breakfast- 
room  with  very  few  traces  of  her  sleepless  night. 

"Poor  young  Southwold,"  said  Mrs.  Clarkson,  "I 
wonder  how  he  is  this  morning.  I  shall  drive  over  to 
see  him  after  breakfast.  I  presume  you  would  like  to 
accompany  me." 


2O2  Southwold. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Medora,  "  I  feel  quite  anxious  about 
him." 

"  A  most  shocking  catastrophe !"  continued  Mrs. 
Clarkson,  "  I  do  not  think  I  quite  understand  yet  how  it 
occurred." 

Medora  summoned  all  her  fortitude  to  reply, 

"  I  presume  he  was  deceived  by  the  bushes,  and  so  ap- 
proached too  near  the  edge  of  the  deep  cut." 

"  But  how  strange  that  he  should  have  slipped  over 
just  as  the  train  arrived.  Did  he  have  no  time  to  cry 
out  ?" 

"He  did  call  for  assistance,  but  Floyd  was  too  late." 

"How  dreadful  it  must  have  been  for  him  ;"  then 
after  a  pause  the  lively  lady  added,  "  I  wonder  if  his 
uncle  left  any  will." 

"  I  rather  think  not.  Floyd  told  me  once  that  he  had 
never  made  any.7' 

"  Indeed  !  then  your  fiancee  is  sole  heir.  My  dear, 
I  congratulate  you,  he  will  be  very  rich." 

Medora  smiled  faintly  and  turned  quickly  away;  the 
effort  of  those  last  few  moments  had  been  too  much  for 
her,  for  suddenly  as  she  stood  there,  surrounded  by 
light  and  friends,  that  same  horrible  bewilderment  of 
brain  rushed  over  her ;  for  a  moment  she  was  once 
more  in  darkness  that  was  peopled  with  fearful  shapes. 
Then  with  an  effort  of  will  she  banished  this  strange 
oppression,  and  seated  herself  at  the  table. 

As  soon  as  the  meal  was  over  Mrs.  Clarkson  ordered 
the  carriage,  and  an  hour  later  they  were  on  their  way 
to  Southwold.  Medora  began  to  fear  that  she  had 
over-estimated  her  strength,  and  that  she  was  unequal 
to  the  coming  interview,  so  very  feeble  and  weak  did 


Southwold.  203 

she  feel.  But  there  was  no  possibility  of  avoiding  it 
now,  and  she  nerved  herself  with  renewed  resolution 
as  they  drove  up  to  the  door. 

Floyd  was  in  the  library  when  he  heard  Mrs.  Clark- 
son's  voice,  and  a  moment  after  Medora  stood  by  his 
side.  Her  friend  judged  that  the  consolations  she  had 
to  offer  would  be  best  bestowed  in  private,  and  after  a 
moment  discreetly  withdrew,  so  that  the  lovers  were 
alone.  Floyd  had  risen  on  Medora's  entrance  and 
greeted  her  with  a  cold — 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Fielding." 

He  remained  standing,  regarding  her  with  strange  un- 
wonted sternness.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence,  and 
then  Medora  said  falteringly — 

"  Floyd,  have  you  not  forgiven  me  ?" 

"  Forgiven  you  ?"  he  exclaimed  with  sudden  energy. 
"  Do  not  ask  forgiveness  of  me,  but  of  the  mutilated 
corpse  in  yonder  room,  and  the  God  whose  first  great 
commandment  you  have  broken !" 

"And  you?" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,  except  that  we  must  part 
for  ever." 

"  Oh,  Floyd !  not  that !  I  have  been  rash  and  cruel, 
but  at  that  moment  I  thought  of  nothing  but  your  in- 
terests and  my  love." 

As  she  spoke  she  laid  her  hand  on  his,  and  drew  so 
near  him  that  her  golden  ringlets  touched  his  shoulder. 
He  was  young, — he  had  loved  that  woman  ardently,  but 
he  shrank  from  her  offered  caress,  and  drew  coldly  back. 
Looking  down  on  those  faultless  features  that  might 
have  been  cut  in  marble,  so  clear  and  bloodless  were 
they,  he  said  slowly — 


204  Southwold. 

"Medora  Fielding,  you  are  very  beautiful;  I  have 
worshipped  you  madly,  but  at  this  moment  there  is  no 
feeling  in  my  heart  towards  you  but  horror  and  pity, 
and  I  had  far  rather  you  should  kill  me  also  than  to 
share  my  life  with  my  uncle's  murderess !" 

Seeing  the  fixed  determination  expressed  in  those 
noble  features,  and  realizing  that  there  was  no  hope,  a 
thousand  despairing  thoughts  rushed  through  Medora's 
brain,  her  overtasked  strength  gave  way,  she  staggered 
forward  and  fell  heavily  on  the  sofa,  hiding  her  face  in 
her  clasped  hands.  Floyd  did  not  approach  her,  he  only 
said  sadly — 

"  Believe  me,  I  am  sincerely  sorry  for  you." 

After  a  moment  she  recovered  herself  somewhat,  and 
looking  up,  said  faintly — 

"  At  least  you  will  not  betray  me." 

"  Xo,"  answered  Floyd,  gloomily,  "  it  would  be  of 
no  benefit ;  it  cannot  restore  that  dead  man  to  life,  to 
blast  your  name ;  no,  I  will  never  divulge  the  dreadful 
secret  of  his  death.  You  are  at  liberty  to  give  what 
explanation  you  please  of  our  broken  engagement,  I 
shall  not  contradict  anything  you  choose  to  say." 

"  Thank  you,"  faltered  Medora.  She  longed  to  say 
more,  to  make  another  attempt  to  regain  her  lost  lover, 
and  felt  the  absolute  necessity  for  self-control,  but  so 
confused  was  her  brain  that  she  was  scarcely  mistress  of 
her  actions.  She  was  aware  of  this,  and  therefore  dared 
neither  move  nor  speak. 

Noticing  her  frightful  pallor  and  the  wild  look  of  her 
glittering  eyes,  Floyd  was  touched  with  compassion ;  he 
half  relented  from  his  stern  purpose,  when  on  a  sudden 
the  thought  recurred  to  him  that  her  exhaustion  and 


Southwold.  205 

suffering  sprang  not  from  disappointed  love,  but  from 
the  haunting  memory  of  crime.  Chilled  into  indignant 
severity,  he  said  coldly — 

"  You  are  not  well ;  allow  me  to  call  Mrs.  Clarkson, 
and  send  you  a  glass  of  wine." 

He  left  the  room,  and  at  that  act,  which  she  felt  was 
final,  Medora's  little  remaining  fortitude  deserted  her, 
she  sank  down  in  a  swoon,  her  last  thought  being 
a  wild  hope  that  the  icy  numbness  which  was  stealing 
over  her  might  be  death. 

Mrs.  Clarkson  was  somewhat  alarmed  at  Floyd's 
abrupt  summons.  She  was  conversing  with  Christian, 
who  had  ventured  to  ask  her  advice  on  one  or  two 
points  he  felt  incompetent  to  decide  himself,  when  Floyd 
entered  the  room  and  said  hurriedly — 

"  Mrs.  Clarkson,  please  go  to  Miss  Fielding,  I  think 
she  is  ill ;  Christian,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  take 
her  a  glass  of  wine  ?" 

On  entering  the  library  she  found  Medora  still  in- 
sensible. With  the  assistance  of  one  of  the  maids 
whom  Christian  had  called,  she  hastened  to  apply 
the  usual  restoratives,  and  at  last  their  exertions  were 
rewarded  by  some  signs  of  returning  life.  Medora 
opened  wide  her  brilliant  eyes,  looking  wildly  about  her 
for  a  moment,  and  then  slowly  and  not  without  an  effort 
came  back  the  remembrance  of  all  the  dreadful  past. 

"  Take  me  away,"  she  said  faintly. 

"  Yes,  dear  !"  replied  Mrs.  Clarkson ;  "  first  drink  this 
wine,  and  when  you  are  strong  enough  we  will  go." 

Medora  hastily  swallowed  the  offered  cordial,  and 
gathering  her  mantle  around  her,  rose,  resolute  to  linger 
no  longer. 


206  Southwold. 

"  I  am  ready,"  she  said  imperiously ;  "  come !" 

Mrs.  Clarkson  regarded  her  with  some  surprise,  but 
followed  in  silence.  In  the  hall  they  found  Floyd,  who 
had  been  anxiously  pacing  up  and  down  during  the  past 
few  minutes.  He  now  came  forward,  and  offered  her 
his  arm. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Medora,  drawing  back,  with  all 
her  ancient  pride.  "  I  require  no  assistance.  Good 
morning,  Mr.  Southwold!" 

With  a  haughty  bow  she  passed  on,  walking  with  a 
firm  step  to  the  carriage,  and  entering  it  alone.  But  oh  ! 
how  wearily  she  sank  back  on  the  cushions,  when  the 
momentary  necessity  for  exertion  was  past. 

Mrs.  Clarkson,  who  was  absolutely  mystified  by  this 
scene,  had  sufficient  tact  to  join  her  friend  without 
betraying  surprise,  until  the  coach  rolled  away. 

Floyd  watched  them  till  a  turn  of  the  road  hid  them 
from  his  view ;  then  he  felt  that  all  was  over  between 
him  and  that  beautiful  woman  whom  he  once  so  loved. 
He  had  done  what  his  own  sense  of  right  and  respect  to 
his  uncle's  memory  required.  Nothing  now  remained 
except  to  count  the  long  hours  of  the  passing  day.  The 
passion  that  for  the  past  year  had  been  a  part  of  his 
very  existence  was  rooted  up  and  destroyed  entirely 
and  for  ever !  It  seemed  to  him  that  never  again  could 
he  know  happiness  or  hope  in  this  world. 

In  this  dark  hour  one  only  comfort  suggested  itself, 
and  that  was  the  gentle  sympathy  of  his  devoted 
mother.  Well  for  him  that  he  could  look  forward  to 
that  consolation,  and  that  he  had  her  bright  example  to 
assure  him  that  all  female  virtue  had  not  ceased  to  exist ; 
for  with  the  overwhelming  shock  of  his  first  discovery, 


Southwold.  207 

that  she  whom  he  had  believed  to  be  all  that  was  lovely 
and  pure,  was  in  reality  false  and  wicked,  there  was 
great  danger  that  he  might  lose  that  confidence  in  wo- 
manly excellence,  which  is  so  essential  to  the  moral  well- 
being  of  every  man. 

The  funeral  was  appointed  for  the  following  morning, 
and  he  expected  Mrs.  Southwold  that  evening,  as  she 
had  been  telegraphed  the  night  previously.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  the  hours  had  never  crept  so  slowly  before  : 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  fix  his  attention  to  anything 
but  the  hideous  past  and  the  sad  future.  He  wandered 
about  restless  and  miserable,  until  the  declining  day 
brought  again  before  him,  in  all  its  vividness,  the  dread- 
ful scene  that  the  last  twilight  had  witnessed.  Contrast- 
ing his  lost  happiness  with  the  sad  present,  his  fortitude 
at  length  gave  way,  and  he  sank  down,  overwhelmed 
with  the  weight  of  woe. 

From  this  stupor  of  grief  he  was  roused  by  a  gentle 
touch,  and  looking  up,  his  mother  stood  by  his  side :  she 
had  arrived  earlier  than  he  had  expected,  and  he  had 
no  time  to  summon  up  the  calmness  with  which  he  had 
intended  to  meet  her,  but  flinging  himself  into  her 
arms,  the  sorrow  he  had  so  long  suppressed  found  vent, 
and  he  sobbed  like  a  little  child. 

In  vain  Mrs.  Southwold  soothed  him  with  tender  words 
and  caresses ;  he  refused  to  be  comforted,  until  alarmed 
by  this  outburst  of  despair,  she  said  entreatingly : — 

"  My  dear  Floyd !  my  dearest  boy,  do  not  distress 
yourself  so  much ;  you  have  still  a  bright  future  before 
you." 

"  No,  mother.  None !  None !  No  hope  but  in  your 
tenderness," 


208  Southwold. 

"And  Miss  Fielding?" 

Floyd  looked  up.  "Mother,"  he  said  mournfully, 
"all  that  is  over.  She  never  loved  me,  and  I  must 
forget  her." 

Although  very  much  surprised  Mrs.  Southwold  did 
not  urge  the  point  at  that  time.  From  her  inmost  heart 
she  pitied  her  son,  and  with  that  gentle  sympathy  that 
only  a  mother  can  feel  she  suggested  all  noble  consola- 
tions, until  he  felt  and  realized  that  dark  as  his  future  in 
this  world  now  appeared,  it  might  still  be  brightened 
with  celestial  light. 

The  funeral  was  attended  by  all  the  gentry  of  the 
neighborhood.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clarkson  were  present, 
and  some  remark  was  excited  by  Miss  Fielding's 
absence.  A  strange  report  was  started,  that  gained 
ground  from  receiving  no  denial,  that  the  engagement 
between  herself  and  Mr.  Southwold  was  broken  off. 

At  length  everything  was  over.  The  splendid  coffin 
that  contained  those  poor  remains  of  that  once  hand- 
some man  was  deposited  in  the  great  family  vault,  there 
to  rest  with  the  unknown  mystery  of  his  death,  until 
that  dreadful  day  of  accounts  when  the  secrets  of  all 
hearts  shall  appear. 

The  crowd  dispersed ;  Floyd  Southwold  and  his 
mother  returned  to  that  elegant  house  that  was  now 
their  home,  that,  noble  inheritance  which  was  at  last  his 
own,  there  to  lead  a  quiet  life  of  study  and  retirement 
that  was  henceforth  to  be  rarely  interrupted. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"When  a  man  marries  a  woman  seized  of  an  estate  of  inheritance} 
that  is  of  lands  and  tenements  in  fee-simple,  or  fee  tail;  and  has  by  her 
issue,  born  alive,  which  was  capable  of  inheriting  her  estate ;  in  this 
case  he  shall,  on  the  death  of  his  wife,  hold  the  lands  for  his  life  as 
tenant  by  the  courtesy.'1 

BLACKSTONE'S  COMMENTARIES. 

"  In  case  the  intestate  shall  die  without  lawful  descendants,  and 
leaving  a  father,  the  inheritance  shall  go  to  such  father." 

REVISED  STATUTES,  NEW  YORK. 

WHEN  Lascelles,  on  his  solitary  visit  to  the  village, 
received  the  telegram  informing  him  of  his  wife's  alarm- 
ing illness,  his  first  thought  was  to  conceal  the  nature  of 
the  message,  in  order  that  nothing  might  prevent  him 
from  accepting  the  evening's  invitation  to  Southwold, 
where  he  was  sure  of  meeting  Medora.  With  sublime 
heartlessness,  therefore,  he  appeared  in  his  usual  spirits 
until  that  awful  catastrophe  sent  the  guests  home 
in  haste.  Then  finding  that  he  had  time  to  take  the  last 
train  for  New  York,  he  feigned  to  have  discovered  the 
dispatch  awaiting  him  at  Ash  Grove,  and  at  once  re- 
turned to  the  city. 

He  had  not  been  at  home  long  when  an  anxiety  sug- 
gested itself  that  had  never  before  occurred  to  him,  and 
that  made  him  hang  with  the  most  anxious  solicitude 
over  the  pillow  of  his  dying  wife  and  the  cradle  of  his 


2 1  o  Southwold. 

infant :  this  was  the  dread  lest  the  daughter  should  not 
survive  the  mother,  and  he  should  thus  lose  his  control 
over  the  wealth  which  he  had  sacrificed  so  much  to  ob- 
tain. Up  to  this  time  he  had  really  taken  so  little  inte- 
rest in  his  child  that  it  had  never  struck  him  how  very 
delicate  she  was,  and  now  it  was  a  thought  of  harassing 
agony  that  the  whole  of  his  vast  fortune  hung  upon  the 
single  thread  of  her  waning  life. 

His  anxieties  upon  this  point  banished  even  the  faint 
show  of  tenderness,  that  must  have  been  paid  by  a  na- 
ture less  selfish  than  his,  to  the  patient  endurance  of  his 
suffering  wife.  All  his  thoughts  were  absorbed  in  the 
state  of  the  wailing  infant,  who  had  grown  feebler  day 
by  day,  until  it  seemed  as  if  its  life  was  ebbing  with  its 
mother's,  as  momentarily  they  drew  nearer  to  the  awful 
gates  of  death.  Lascelles  was  absolutely  sickened  by 
the  torturing  suspense,  and,  unable  to  sleep  or  eat,  wan- 
dered restlessly  between  the  two  darkened  chambers. 

He  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  tormenting  specula- 
tions to  notice  that  he  was  closely  watched  both  by 
Mrs.  Hartly  and  the  child's  nurse  ;  by  the  former  with 
warm  indignation  at  his  utter  heartlessness,  and  by  the 
latter,  who  was  a  shrewd,  unscrupulous  Englishwoman, 
with  a  suspicion  of  his  fears,  and  a  keen  hope  of  being 
able  to  turn  them  to  her  own  benefit. 

It  was  the  second  evening  after  his  return,  and  poor 
Lucy  was  sinking  rapidly.  She  was  now  so  feeble  that 
she  was  unable  to  speak  except  in.  gasping  whispers, 
though  her  face  never  failed  to  light  up  at  her  hus- 
band's approach.  The  anxiety  of  Lascelles  amounted 
to  the  most  intense  excitement,  as  he  encountered  the 
family  physician  in  the  hall  and  drew  him  aside — 


South  wold.  21 1 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  my  wife  is  very  ill.  I  entreat 
you  not  to  deceive  me,  but  tell  me  the  worst  ?" 

"  If  you  wish  it,  Mr.  Lascelles,"  replied  the  physician, 
"  I  must  answer  you  that  I  cannot  conscientiously  give  . 
you  any  hope." 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  live  through  the  night  ?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "  I  cannot  say,  I  shall 
return  in  an  hour  and  see  if  there  is  any  change  for  the 
better." 

Lascelles  turned  away.  Guilt  is  ever  suspicious  of 
detection,  and  he  durst  not  ask  the  same  questions 
about  the  child.  What  could  he  do  ?  It  was  too  late 
to  draw  up  a  will,  Lucy  was  manifestly  incapable  of 
signing  one,  his  only  hope  rested  on  the  chance  that  the 
infant  would  survive  the  night.  With  restless  excite- 
ment he  entered  the  darkened  nursery  and  approached 
the  child,  who  yet  lingered  between  life  and  death,  al- 
though its  cries  of  pain  had  ceased  from  exhaustion,  and 
its  pulse  was  so  feeble  that  it  was  almost  imperceptible. 
With  undisguised  alarm  Lascelles  bent  over  it,  asking, 
for  the  hundredth  time — 

"  Is  the  baby  alive,  Margaret  ?" 

"  She  is,  sir,"  answered  the  woman.  "  You  seem 
very  anxious  about  her,  sir." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  replied  Lascelles. 

"  A  great  deal  sometimes  comes  to  depend  on  a  baby's 
life,"  said  Margaret,  sententiously ;  then,  without  ap- 
pearing to  notice  his  quick  start,  she  went  on  :  "I  was 
once  in  a  family,  sir,  where  a  great  fortune  was  lost  by 
a  child  being  still-born,  although  the  mother  died  in 
giving  it  birth." 

Lascelles  looked  furtively  at  her.    "  Do  you  think  she 


212  South  wold. 

will  live  till  morning  ?"  he  asked,  touching  gently  the 
emaciated  infant. 

"  If  you  wish  it  very  much,  I  think  she  will,"  rejoined 
the  nurse  significantly. 

"  She  must,"  said  Lascelles  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  She  shall." 

Lascelles  turned  away,  trembling  from  head  to  foot  at 
his  own  temerity ;  he  went  back  to  the  boudoir  that . 
communicated  both  with  the  nursery  and  his  wife's  apart- 
ment. Completely  unnerved  he  walked  restlessly  up 
and  down,  yet  shunned  the  approach  to  Lucy's  room. 
The  crime  that  he  was  tempted  to  commit  against  her, 
made  him  fear  to  meet  her  loving  glance.  Sometimes 
he  paused  for  a  moment  to  listen  to  the  labored  breathing, 
and  then  hurried  away  to  the  door  of  the  other  room 
where  that  imperturbable  nurse  sat  bending  over  the 
quiet  infant.  There  was  something  inexpressibly  horri- 
ble in  the  slow  stealing  march  of  those  long  hours.  The 
doctor  came  and  went,  the  night  waned,  and  yet  all 
remained  unchanged.  Mrs.  Hartly  sat  at  Lucy's  pillow, 
and  Margaret  cowered  over  the  helpless  babe.  Still  the 
mother  lingered,  and  the  daughter  failed. 

A  great  while  had  elapsed  since  midnight,  and  Lascelles 
judged  that  it  must  be  almost  morning,  when  approaching 
the  nursery,  he  noticed  it  full  of  a  soft  red  light.  Enter- 
ing immediately,  he  discovered  that  although  it  was  close 
and  warm,  Margaret  had  lit  a  small  fire  in  the  grate,  and 
was  sitting  quite  near  it  with  the  child  in  her  arms. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  nurse  ?"  he  asked  in  alarm. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  baby  has  a  chill,"  replied  the  woman 
with  a  significant  look,  that  curdled  his  blood.  "  I  am 
trying  to  warm  her." 


South  wold.  213 

Lascelles  durst  ask  no  more,  though  his  heart  sickened 
with  a  dreadful  foreboding.  He  left  the  chamber  and 
returned  to  his  previous  post  of  observation,  perceiving 
with  inexpressible  relief  that  a  dull  grey  light  was  steal- 
ing into  the  room ;  and  a  few  indistinct  sounds  coming  in 
through  the  open  window,  announced  that  the  great  city 
was  awakening  to  another  day.  It  was  not  long  after 
this  when  Mrs.  Hartly  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Lucy  is  dying,"  she  said,  "  come  quickly." 

With  a  shudder  he  obeyed  her,  entered  his  wife's 
room,  and  approached  the  bed.  Her  breath,  which  had 
before  been  so  labored,  had  sunk  into  a  faint  sigh,  her 
eyes  were  half  open,  and  already  over  her  features  was 
stealing  the  livid  hue  of  death.  Yet  even  at  that 
supreme  moment,  she  knew  her  husband,  a  faint  ray  of 
expression  flitted  over  her  face,  and  her  lips  moved. 

"  Walter,"  she  murmured,  "  dear  husband — kiss  me — 
once  more." 

Mrs.  Hartly's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  yet  he  could 
not  repress  a  shiver  of  fear,  as  he  bent  down  over  the 
dying  woman  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers.  It  was  but  a 
brief  instant,,  yet  when  he  raised  his  head  all  was  over. 
Her  faithful  spirit  had  fled  in  the  effort  of  that  last 
caress. 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  Mrs.  Hartly,  coming  forward  and 
kissing  her  pale  forehead.  "Poor  Lucy,  she  suffered 
much,  but  ere  this  she  is  beyond  the  reach  of  pain  and 
illness  for  ever." 

Lascelles  durst  not  linger,  but  with  a  sigh  almost  of 
relief,  hurried  into  the  next  room.  He  advanced  eagerly. 
Margaret  still  sat  before  the  fire  with  the  child  in  her 
arms,  murmuring  a  soft  lullaby. 


2 1 4  Southwold. 

"  Is  she  alive  ?"  he  asked  hurriedly. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  nurse,  "  I  think  the  little  dear 
is  better." 

Lascelles  shuddered  at  the  mocking  tenderness  of  the 
words,  although  somewhat  relieved  by  the  assurance 
they  contained.  At  that  moment  Mrs.  Hartly  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

"  Let  me  take  the  child,"  she  said. 

"  Really,  madam,"  replied  Margaret,  "  she  has  just 
fallen  asleep — I  am  afraid  of  disturbing  her." 

Mrs.  Hartly  looked  hard  at  her,  but  did  not  dispute 
the  point ;  she  merely  turned  to  Lascelles,  who  quailed 
beneath  her  searching  look — 

"  My  duty  to  the  child  is  very  strong,"  she  said,  "  now 
that  my  care  of  the  mother  has  ceased." 

He  stammered  a  reply,  and  she  seated  herself  quietly 
near  the  nurse.  The  moments  ticked  slowly  away.  A 
morbid  dreadful  curiosity  took  possession  of  Lascelles  to 
know  if  that  was  a  living  infant  or  a  senseless  corpse 
which  the  stony  nurse  caressed  so  tenderly.  It  was 
almost  a  relief  to  his  tortured  feelings,  when  at  the  end 
of  perhaps  half  an  hour  Mrs.  Hartly  a  second  time 
approached  her  and  said  firmly — 

"  Give  me  that  baby." 

"  Certainly,  madam,  if  you  insist,  but,  pray,  take  her 
carefully,"  replied  Margaret,  lifting  her  tiny  burden. 
Mrs.  Hartly  raised  it  tenderly,  then  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"Alas !  poor  child !"  she  said,  "  it  is  dead,  and,  more," 
she  added  with  a  start,  "  it  is  cold !" 

"  It  must  be  only  a  chill,"  replied  Margaret,  imper- 
turbably.  "  I  fed  her  just  now,  and  she  seemed  better." 


Southwold.  2 1 5 

Mrs.  Hartly  did  not  reply;  she  carried  the  dead 
infant  into  the  next  room  and  laid  it  beside  the  dead 
mother.  Then  kneeling  down  she  wept  long  and  bit- 
terly over  the  untimely  fate  of  her  unfortunate  cousin. 

As  soon  as  the  door  closed  upon  her  Lascelles  ad- 
vanced towards  the  nurse  and  asked  in  a  low  agitated 
whisper — 

"  When  did  it  die  ?" 

"About  two  hours  ago,  as  near  as  I  can  judge," 
answered  Margaret  coolly,  "  though  I  kept  it  warm  as 
long  as  I  could."  Then  noticing  his  horror-struck  looks 
she  added:  "But  you  need  not  concern  yourself,  sir, 
I  will  say  just  what  you  choose." 

"Not  now,"  said  Lascelles,  tremulously,  "I  cannot 
talk  to  you  about  it  now.  But  do  not  speak  to  any  one 
until  I  see  you  again." 

He  hurried  away,  and  going  to  his  room  locked  the 
door  that  he  might  not  be  disturbed  in  his  delibera- 
tions. Juvenal  says — "Nemo  repentbfuit  turpissimus," 
and  notwithstanding  all  his  viteness  he  could  not  at  once 
bring  himself  to  the  commission  of  this  crime.  Yet  the 
temptation  to  accept  the  woman's  offer  was  immense.  It 
was  true  that  in  no  event  could  he  lose  the  income  of  his 
wife's  large  property,  and  this  might  have  satisfied  him 
had  he  not  already  begun  to  dream  of  marrying  the  only 
woman  he  had  ever  loved.  Relying  upon  the  past,  and 
fortified  by  his  vanity,  he  had  no  doubt  of  succeeding  in 
his  suit ;  and,  should  he  marry  again,  it  would  be 
extremely  desirable  that  he  should  hold  independent 
possession  of  the  fortune.  No  one  would  know  the  real 
facts  except  this  nurse  and  himself;  and  from  his  legal 
knowledge  he  was  aware  that,  should  all  be  discovered, 


2 1 6  South  wold. 

he  would  be  liable  to  no  punishment  for  this  nameless 
crime.  Over  and  over  again  he  repeated  this  assurance. 
A  thorough  coward  at  heart,  he  was  incapable  of  even 
a  bold  villainy,  and  might  have  been  terrified  from  this 
act  had  he  not  been  rendered  secure  by  the  strange 
absence  of  all  legislation  on  this  point.  Then,  once 
again,  he  thought  of  the  wealth  which  he  so  longed  to 
hold  undisputed,  and  hesitating  no  longer  determined 
to  comply  with  any  conditions  that  would  insure  a 
result  so  advantageous. 

Fearing  to  trust  his  accomplice,  as  soon  as  he  arrived 
at  this  conclusion  Lascelles  sent  fo*  Margaret.  Their 
interview  was  a  long  one,  for  her  demands  were  exorbi- 
tant, and  it  was  some  time  before  he  would  agree  to 
them.  At  length,  however,  all  was  satisfactorily  ar- 
ranged, and  sending  for  the  legal  gentleman  who  had 
been  the  confidential  adviser  of  the  late  Mr.  Went  worth, 
the  woman  in  his  presence  declared  that  the  child  sur- 
vived the  mother  at  least  half  an  hour. 

When  this  was  over,  Lascelles  breathed  more  freely, 
and  was  at  length  able  to  take  the  rest  and  repose  he  so 
much  required,  before  making  the  arrangements  for  the 
solemnities  of  the  ensuing  day. 

The  procession  that  followed  poor  Lucy  Lascelles  to 
her  grave  was  but  a  small  one,  for  the  weather  was 
oppressively  warm,  and  most  of  their  friends  were  out 
of  town.  There  was  something  touchingly  sad  in  this 
double  funeral — the  little  baby  sleeping  its  last  sleep  on 
its  mother's  arm — as  they  lay  side  by  side,  in  the  same 
coffin.  The  melancholy  train,  creeping  slowly  on  through 
the  great  thoroughfares,  jostled  by  the  streams  of  busy 
life,  and  surrounded  by  a  careless  and  indifferent  crowd. 


South  wold.  217 

It  was  an  infinite  relief  when  at  last  the  quiet  cemetery 
was  reached,  and  the  green  trees  and  soft  sky  looked 
down  calmly  on  the  passing  throng,  and  welcomed 
kindly  these  new  tenants  to  their  long  resting-place. 


10 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"Break!     Break!     Break! 
At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  oh  sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me." 

TESXTSOX. 

"The  thoughts  of  past  pleasures  and  truth 
The  best  of  our  blessings  below." 

•  Dobson  and  Joan. — PRTOR. 

MEDORA  FIELDING  left  Lazy-Bank  the  day  after  Mr. 
Southwold's  funeral.  She  was  not  able  to  leave  sooner. 
On  the  homeward  drive  after  her  interview  with  Floyd, 
she  had  explained  to  Mrs.  Clarkson  in  a  few  feeble 
words  that  her  engagement  was  at  an  end. 

"  Broken  off!"  exclaimed  her  friend.  "  It  must  be  a 
mere  temporary  misunderstanding." 

"It  is  one  which  can  never  be  removed,"  replied 
Medora.  "I  shall  assign  no  reason  for  my  conduct. 
Let  the  world  say  what  it  will." 

Mrs.  Clarkson  asked  no  more  questions.  She  saw 
that  her.  companion  was  too  weak  to  converse,  and 
trusted  to  time  to  explain  the  mystery.  On  their  arrival 
at  Lazy-Bank,  Medora  went  at  once  to  her  room.  She 
felt  like  one  walking  in  a  dream,  and  almost  immedi- 
ately sank  into  a  heavy  stupor  of  sleep  that  lasted  some 
hours. 


Southwold.  2 1 9 

When  she  awoke  she  was  in  a  high  fever.  Her  brain 
throbbed  and  ached  intensely.  She  could  not  think 
calmly,  and  she  was  haunted  by  the  horrible  fear  that 
she  might  become  delirious,  and  betray  all  the  secrets 
of  her  life.  But  she  was  endowed  by  nature  with  an 
iron  constitution  and  vigorous  health.  These  assisted 
her  to  throw  off  the  threatened  illness,  and  her  powerful 
will  enabled  her  to  maintain  a  profound  silence  all 
through  the  second  awful  night  of  wakefulness  and 
horror. 

Towards  morning  she  slept  again,  and  when  Mrs. 
Clarkson  left  for  the  funeral,  she  did  not  disturb  her. 
On  her  return,  she  went  at  once  to  her  friend's  room. 
To  her  surprise,  she  found  her  sitting  up,  wrapped  in  a 
dressing-gown,  very  pale  and  exhausted,  but  temporarily 
without  fever. 

"My  dear  Medora,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  so  well. 
But  are  you  not  imprudent  to  be  up  ?" 

"No,  Sue!  I  am  very  much  better.  I  have  been 
making  some  preparations  for  departure.  I  must  leave 
to-morrow." 

This  announcement  was  met  with  much  kind  opposi- 
tion, but  Medora,  who  had  a  deeper  reason  than  any  she 
had  chosen  to  give  for  not  daring  to  linger,  would  listen 
to  no  arguments,  replying  to  all  that  Mrs.  Clarkson 
could  say : 

"My  dear  Sue,  do  not  urge  me  to  remain.  It  is 
impossible  after  what  has  passed,"  until  she  desisted 
from  useless  importunities. 

The  fever,  which  had  for  a  few  hours  deserted  Medora, 
returned  towards  evening,  and  the  false  strength  which 
it  gave  to  her,  no  doubt  enabled  her  to  complete  her 


220  Southwold. 

arrangements  for  leaving,  and  accomplish  her  journey 
the  following  day. 

It  was  a  beautiful  bright  afternoon  when  Medora  bade 
her  friends  adieu  and  entered  the  cars,  which  stood  all 
black  and  grimy,  enveloped  in  dust  and  smoke, — a  sooty 
blot  on  the  fair  landscape.  As  they  started,  with  a  shriek 
and  rush,  a  shudder  crept  over  her  at  the  thought  of 
that  other  train  that  had  swept  on  so  relentlessly,  and 
consummated  her  crime.  She  seated  herself  by  an  open 
window.  As  they  dashed  on  she  looked  out  on  the 
sparkling  river,  and  it  seemed  as  if  an  eternity  had 
elapsed  since  she  last  passed  up  those  shores.  She  felt 
inexpressibly  sick  and  bewildered;  the  latter  part  of  the 
journey,  she  was  conscious  only  of  confused  images,  that 
swept  by  her,  and  of  vainly  endeavoring  to  converse 
with  a  casual  acquaintance  whom  she  encountered,  and 
who  surfeited  her  with  compliments  and  admiration, 
mistaking  the  hectic  flush  on  her  cheeks  for  the  glow  of 
health,  and  the  glittering  light  of  her  eyes  for  the  lustre 
of  animation. 

Utterly  wearied  and  dispirited,  at  last  she  reached  her 
city  home,  those  little  rooms  in  a  crowded  street.  To 
her  there  was  no  hope  or  prospect  of  comfort  in  the 
meeting  with  her  mother.  On  the  contrary,  she  shrank 
from  it  with  positive  dread. 

Mrs.  Fielding  did  not  expect  her  daughter,  who  was 
never  a  good  correspondent,  and  from  whom  she  had 
not  heard  for  more  than  a  week.  She  was  lying  listlessly 
on  the  sofa,  when  the  door  opened  and  Medora  entered. 
She  sprang  up. 

"Good Heavens!  Medora, how  you  startle  me !  Where 
did  you  come  from  ?" 


South  wold.  221 

"  From  Lazy-Bank,  of  course." 

"  But  what  brought  you  back  so  soon  ?  Why  did 
you  not  write  to  me?  You  know  how  sensitive  my 
nerves  are.  I  shall  be  ill  all  day,  in  consequence  of  this 
shock." 

"  I  shall  regret  exceedingly  such  a  result  of  my  unwel- 
come return." 

"  But  you  were  to  stay  a  month  longer.  Why  are 
you  here  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  broken  off  my  engagement  with  Mr. 
Southwold,  and  did  not  wish  to  remain." 

"  Broken  your  engagement !  Really,  Medora,  you  are 
the  most  inconsiderate  girl.  Here  you  have  first  set  my 
heart  palpitating  with  your  unexpected  arrival,  and  now 
you  coolly  announce  to  me  a  most  disastrous  piece  of 
folly,  without  the  slightest  regard  for  my  feelings.  I  had 
just  begun  to  think  that  all  my  troubles  about  you  were 
over,  and  here  you  must  needs  take  some  foolish  fancy 
and  break  off  your  engagement,  at  the  very  time,  too, 
when  the  match  was  most  brilliant.  I  saw  old  Mr. 
Southwold's  death  in  the  paper,  and  thought  everything 
was  going  on  so  well,  and  now  here  you  are  back.  Oh, 
dear ! "  At  this  climax  the  lady  fairly  broke  down  and 
began  to  sob. 

This  was  Medora's  welcome.  Heart-sick  and  body- 
sick,  she  turned  away  to  seek  the  rest  and  refreshment 
she  so  much  needed. 

After  this  a  week  elapsed,  miserably  enough.  Medora 
was  not  absolutely  so  ill  as  to  be  confined  to  her  room, 
but  every  evening  a  low  fever  spread  through  her  veins, 
and  her  nights  were  long  hours  of  wakefulness  and  pain. 
And  struggle  against  it  fiercely  as  she  might,  those  ter- 


222  Southwold. 

rible  moments  of  bewilderment  and  haunting  spectres 
recurred  with  alarming  frequency.  She  felt  keenly  the 
mortification  of  her  broken  engagement,  and  scarcely 
quitted  her  room,  in  order  to  avoid  the  few  friends  and 
acquaintance,  who  yet  remained  in  town,  shrinking 
nervously  from  the  surprised  comments  or  awkward 
silence  which  was  sure  to  follow  the  explanation  of  her 
unexpected  return. 

The  sudden  darkening  of  all  the  dreams  of  future 
happiness  and  peace  she  had  indulged  in  contemplating 
her  union  with  Floyd,  and  her  remorseful  recollection 
of  the  useless  sacrifice  of  Mr.  Southwold's  life,  were 
shadows  that  rendered  each  moment  an  unavailing 
regret.  There  was  no  danger  of  public  disgrace ;  and  in 
the  prime  of  loveliness  and  fascination,  she  might  yet 
look  forward  to  years  of  triumph  and  ultimate  success  ; 
but  she  felt  that  for  her  the  future  contained  no  hope. 

Even  the  news  of  her  poor  friend  Lucy's  death,  which 
took  place  two  days  after  her  return,  failed  to  arouse 
her  from  the  apathy  of  indifference.  The  time  was 
passed  wrhen  the  freedom  of  Lascelles  could  benefit  her. 
All. the  once  ardent  love  had  died  into  ashes.  She 
remembered  his  ill-timed  avowals  with  a  shudder,  and 
looked  forward  to  the  possibility  of  his  renewed  ad- 
dresses without  pleasure,  almost  with  dread. 

Mrs.  Fielding  was  at  last  really  alarmed  by  her 
daughter's  wasted  and  wan  look.  Notwithstanding  Me- 
dora's  strenuous  opposition,  she  ventured  to  consult  a 
physician,  who  earnestly  advised  change  of  air,  and  that 
they  should  immediately  leave  the  hot  and  dusty  city 
and  seek  the  sea-side. 

Yielding  to  this   necessity,  Mrs.   Fielding  and   her 


South  wold.  223 

daughter  went  at  once  to  Seachester,  the  small  water- 
ing-place where  they  were  in  the  habit  of  whiling  away 
the  heats  of  August  and  early  September.  This  village 
stood  on  the  ocean  shore  of  Long  Island,  and  here  they 
found  cheap  and  comfortable  lodgings  in  a  small  board- 
ing-house. 

The  long  tedious  weeks  of  the  summer  slowly  rolled 
away.  Medora  was  very  ill — more  so  than  she  was 
willing  to  admit  to  any  one.  The  wretched  fever  that 
consumed  her,  still  constantly  recurred,  and  she  was  sub- 
ject to  appalling  headaches,  accompanied  by  the  most 
complete  bewilderment  of  brain.  She  shunned  all 
society,  absolutely  fearing  to  see  any  one  while  she  was 
in  this  state.  She  made  her  health  an  excuse  for  refus- 
ing to  attend  any  of  the  parties  of  pleasure  gotten  up  by 
the  other  sojourners  at  Seachester. 

Almost  her  only  occupation  was  to  sit  hour  after  hour 
on  a  lonely  seat  upon  the  beach,  looking  out  over  the 
wraste  of  ocean,  and  watching  the  waves  rolling  up  on 
the  shore.  Here  she  would  remain  often  until  the  day 
faded  into  night,  and  the  music  of  the  band  stationed  in 
front  of  the  great  hotel,  came  floating  over  the  waters. 
Forgetful  of  all  around  her,  absorbed  in  yearning 
regrets  over  her  past  life,  seemingly  as  widely  separated 
from  the  awful  present  as  if  years  instead  of  only  months 
had  elapsed  since  she  was  happy,  she  would  think  of 
those  halycon  days  when  she  was  young  and  fresh  to 
life — a  laughing  careless  girl,  enjoying  every  moment  of 
the  glad  hours,  and  drinking  in  the  first  intoxicating 
draught  of  admiration  and  devotion — the  belle  of  every 
gay  party,  followed  constantly  by  a  crowd  of  worship- 
ping adorers. 


224  South  wold. 

It  is  a  glorious  thing  to  be  young  and  beautiful,  to 
feel  health  and  vigor  bounding  in  every  pulse,  to  dance 
to  joyous  music  in  brilliant  ball-rooms,  and  listen  to 
love  whispers  on  moonlit  balconies ;  to  be  everywhere 
and  always  the  queen  of  the  scene  whose  presence 
crowns  the  assemblage.  Amid  all  the  varied  pleasures 
which  a  long  life  brings  to  the  successful,  there  is  none 
like  this.  Domestic  happiness,  affectionate  children, 
unbounded  luxury,  triumphant  fame — even  in  these  en- 
joyments, delicious  as  they  are,  there  lurks  not  the  ex- 
quisite rapture  which  thrilled  in  those  bright  seasons 
when  beauty  first  listened  to  love.  Years  may  elapse, 
age  may  numb  the  feelings  and  chill  the  blood,  but  still 
some  strain  of  music  or  some  long  forgotten  name  will 
awaken  with  passionate  tenderness  all  the  unutterably 
sad  and  unutterably  sweet  memories  of  the  far  past. 

So  Medora  dwelt  fctejj,  by  step  on  her  brilliant  career 
which  had  ended  in  misery.  She  saw  herself  coming 
gradually  down  the  path  of  time,  treading  it  with  the 
white  feet  of  innocent  childhood  ;  dancing  gaily  on,  a 
happy  girl;  walking  proudly  as  a  loving  woman ;  and  now 
weighed  down  with  crime,  staggering  blindly  in  dark- 
ness. 

As  she  thought  of  the  occurrences  of  the  past  eighteen 
months,  she  realized  clearly  how  far  greater  were  her 
chances  of  happiness  with  Southwrold,  than  they  ever 
were  or  could  be  with  L'ascelles.  She  believed  now  that 
had  she  been  united  to  Floyd,  she  would  have  loved 
him  with  all  the  depth  of  affection  of  which  her  nature 
was  capable,  whereas  with  Lascelles  the  first  freshness  of 
her  love  was  gone.  She  appreciated  his  unworthiness, 
and  looked  forward  to  a  union  with  him  as  utterly  impos- 


Southwold.  225 

sible.  Indeed  what  right  had  she  to  hope  for  happiness? 
while  ever  across  the  brightest  noon-tide  as  in  the  black- 
est night,  floated  the  awful  spectre  of  the  murdered 
man.  The  present  was  utterly  wretched,  and  the  future 
she  no  longer  dared  to  contemplate.  There  was  a  threat- 
ening horror  in  its  look  that  curdled  her  veins  with  its 
coining  dread. 

For  a  long  time  she  would  not  give  it  a  name,  even  to 
herself,  and  with  all  the  strength  of  her  powerful  will 
she  struggled  against  the  creeping  shadow.  Again  and 
again  she  was  fearfully  conscious  that  she  was  not  mis- 
tress of  herself.  It  was  this  that  made  her  shun  com- 
panionship. Strange  forms  and  imaginations,  that  could 
have  no  real  existence  but  in  a  disordered  brain,  crept 
around  her,  and  she  would  start  up  straining  her  eyes 
to  convince  herself  that  she  was  alone  with  the  silent  sun- 
light and  the  eternal  sea. 

At  last  the  thought  suggested  itself  that  her  efforts 
might  be  vainly  made  against  an  hereditary  taint. 
There  was  something  so  awful  in  this  fear,  that  for  days 
she  lacked  the  courage  to  ask  the  question  which  might 
prove  its  groundlessness  or  its  hopeless  certainty.  Finally, 
the  torturing  suspense  seemed  harder  to  bear  than  the  fatal 
knowledge,  and  she  abruptly  turned  to  Mrs.  Fielding 
and  said — 

"  Mother,  has  there  ever  been  insanity  in  our  family  ?" 
"Really,    Medora,   what   strange   questions  you  do 
ask !" 

44  Never  mind  that,  please,  but  answer  me." 
44 1  don't  see  why  you  wish  to  know,  but  I  suppose 
I    might    as    well    tell    you.     Among    the    Clintons 
there  never  has  been  any  transmitted  disease,  but  after 
10* 


226  Southwold. 

I  was  married  I  discovered  that  your  father's  mother 
died  in  a  lunatic  asylum." 

"  Then  I  am  mad  !"  Medora  whispered  the  terrible 
words  to  herself,  and  went  out  to  wander  with  restless 
steps  on  the  lonely  shore. 

In  that  sentence  was  the  curse  of  a  blasted  life,  and 
while  she  could  yet  think  coherently  she  contemplated 
her  awful  doom. 

A  blasted  life  !  This  inestimable  boon  of  existence, 
which  is  given  but  once,  rendered  a  curse  instead  of 
a  blessing !  Oh  !  measureless  misery  !  to  know  that  all 
possibility  of  happiness  in  this  world  is  fled,  and  to  have 
no  hope  of  that  future  heaven  where  the  clouded  reason 
is  brightened  with  eternal  glory,  and  the  wretchedness 
endured  here,  atoned  for  with  endless  bliss. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  Oil  1  she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ;  her  mind 
Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look, 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth." 

The  Dream. — BYRON. 

NOT  without  many  struggles  did  Medora  yield  to  her 
inevitable  fate,  although  other  conversations  with  her 
mother  concerning  her  unfortunate  ancestress,  forced 
upon  her,  with  appalling  certainty,  the  hopelessness  of 
her  efforts.  All  that  human  skill  could  do  she  deter- 
mined should  be  done,  and  thus  reluctantly  brought 
herself  to  the  resolution  of  consulting  a  physician. 

The  person  whom,  she  selected  as  her  adviser  was  Dr. 
Talbot,  a  venerable  and  kind  old  gentleman  with  whom 
she  had,  for  two  seasons  past,  some  slight  acquaintance. 
He  had  almost  entirely  retired  from  the  practice  of  his 
profession,  and  now  resided  permanently  in  Seachester. 
Having  much  leisure,  and  being  blessed  with  vigorous 
health,  and  fond  of  exercise  in  the  open  air,  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  taking  long  strolls  over  the  hills  and  on  the 
shore. 

During  these  expeditions  he  frequently  noticed  the 
beautiful  girl  who  sat  motionless  on  her  lonely  seat,  or 
paced  with  restless  steps  up  and  down  a  short  distance, 


228  South  wold. 

turning  ever  at  a  certain  point  and  walking  fiercely  back 
to  her  original  starting-place,  as  if  she  were  confined 
within  barriers,  instead  of  at  liberty  to  wander  away 
for  miles.  Watching  her  with  kindly  interest,  that  was 
deepened  by  a  half  suspicion  which  sometimes  suggested 
itself,  he  more  than  once  found  Medora's  flashing  eyes 
fixed  upon  him  with  questioning  earnestness.  On  these 
occasions  he  ventured  to  lift  his  hat  and  pass  on  with  a 
courteous  bow. 

Satisfied  by  this  that  he  had  not  forgotten  her,  and 
instinctively  appreciating  his  benevolent  character,  Me- 
dora  only  awaited  an  opportunity  for  addressing  him. 
It  came  one  morning  when  she  saw  him  advancing  along 
the  shore,  and  felt  her  brain  unusually  clear  and  her 
pulses  cool.  As  he  approached,  she  rose  to  meet  him, 
and  said,  with  all  her  old  grace  of  manner — 

"  Good  morning,  Dr.  Talbot.  May  I  venture  to  ask 
you  the  favor  of  giving  me  some  advice,  or  would  you 
prefer  not  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  Miss  Fielding ;  nothing  will  give 
me  greater  pleasure  than  to  assist  you  in  any  way." 

He  seated  himself  beside  her,  and  banishing  the 
almost  unconquerable  repugnance  she  felt  to  giving 
words  to  her  apprehensions,  Medora  began : 

"  I  have  noticed  you  pass  here  very  frequently,  and 
have  sometimes  fancied  that  you  looked  at  me  with 
interest." 

"  You  are  not  mistaken.  I  have  regarded  you  with 
much  solicitude,  regretting  that  one  so  young  and  so 
fitted  to  adorn  society  should  so  seclude  herself." 

"  If  you  have  watched  me  with  such  kindness,  has  it 
never  suggested  itself  to  you  that  there  might  be  a 


South  wold.  229 

deeper  and  more  awful  reason  than  any  the  world  gives 
for  my  conduct?"  Then,  as  Dr.  Talbot  hesitated  a 
reply,  she  added :  "  Do  not  fear  to  wound  me  by  your 
answer,  but  tell  me  the  truth,  I  entreat  you." 

"  Yes !  Miss  Fielding,  I  have  imagined  that  you 
were  allowing  yourself  to  brood  too  much  on  some 
harassing  thought." 

"  And  that  it  had  affected  my  brain — is  it  not  so  ?" 
she  said  excitedly. 

"  Not  yet,  I  hope,"  rejoined  the  doctor,  soothingly. 
"  But  do  not  dwell  too  much  on  your  sorrow,  whatever 
it  is.  You  are  young.  Life  has  much  happiness  yet  in 
store  for  you." 

Medora  shook  her  head.  "  No  !"  she  said,  sadly ; 
"  no  !  none  !" 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  do  not  say  so.  Perhaps  the 
state  of  your  health  has  much  to  do  with  your  de- 
pressed spirits.  Let  me  feel  your  pulse.  You  have 
fever  now — " 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  Medora ;  "  I  am  rarely  free 
from  it." 

"  Indeed  !  that  is  bad.     And  your  head  ?" 

"  Oh  !  the  most  intense  pain  in  it  constantly.  Often 
as  if  red-hot  needles  were  thrust  into  my  brain."  And 
then  she  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  see  the  most  horrible 
sights.  I  know  they  are  not  real,  but  I  cannot  throw 
them  off." 

Dr.  Talbot  regarded  her  compassionately.  "  Poor 
child  !"  he  said,  "  you  should  not  indulge  such  fancies." 

"  What  chance  do  you  think  I  have  of  resisting  them 
when  I  tell  you  that  there  is  hereditary  insanity  in  our 
family." 


230  Southwold. 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly  as  she  spoke,  and  de- 
tected instantly  the  sorrowful  regret  of  his  glance. 
"  There  is  no  hope  ?  is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  By  no  means,  Miss  Fielding ;  you  are  young,  and 
while  there  is  life  there  is  no  reason  to  despair." 

"  It  will  not  kill  me,  then  ?     I  shall  live  ?" 

"  Certainly,  your  life  is  in  no  danger.  I  think  this 
fever  will  pass  off  in  a  few  months — " 

"When  the  struggle  has  ceased,  and  I  am  wholly 
crazy?  I  understand,"  interrupted  Medora,  quickly, 
"  so  there  is  no  hope  of  death.  I  am  young,  as  you 
say.  My  health  has  always  been  vigorous.  I  shall 
live !  Live  to  curse  my  existence  behind  the  horrid 
bars  of  a  lunatic  asylum  !  Live  as  long  as  my  grand- 
mother did  !  Do  you  know,"  she  added  in  a  half-whis- 
per, "  she  became  insane  when  she  was  only  thirty,  and 
lived  to  be  seventy  ?  Forty  years  in  a  mad-house ! 
More  than  half  her  life !  Forty  years  of  unutterable 
horror  and  despair !  And  you  tell  me,  as  an  encou- 
ragement, that  this  dreadful  disease  does  not  threaten 
my  life." 

She  rose,  as  she  spoke,  and  walked  rapidly  away  a 
few  steps,  then  abruptly  returned  to  the  seat.  Her  hat 
had  fallen  off.  Her  golden  hair,  now  never  arranged 
with  the  nice  care  she  had  been  wont  to  bestow  upon 
it,  escaped  from  its  confinement  in  a  hundred  twining 
curls.  Her  face  was  very  pale,  except  for  the  round 
red  spot  in  either  cheek,  and  there  was  that  glassy  glitter 
in  her  eyes  whose  fatal  significance  the  doctor  understood 
only  too  well.  He  was  much  interested  and  touched,  and 
pursuing  the  course  which  he  conscientiously  believed  to 
be  right,  he  took  her  hand  and  said,  earnestly — 


South  wold.  231 

"  Miss  Fielding,  you  voluntarily  solicited  my  advice. 
Let  me  give  it  to  you  honestly  and  sincerely.  I  will 
not  deny  that  you  are  in  much  danger,  though  I  am  not 
without  hope  that  it  may  be  averted.  But,  in  this  hour 
of  trial,  let  me  entreat  you  to  throw  all  your  sorrows 
on  that  God  who  does  not  willingly  afflict  or  grieve  the 
children  of  men." 

Medora  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  as  if  not  clearly 
comprehending  him,  then  her  lips  curled  contemptu- 
ously. 

"  Xo  !  no  !"  she  said,  "  even  if  I  implicitly  believed 
in  an  overruling  Providence,  after  having  disregarded 
and  slighted  its  precepts  all  \hrough  my  bright  days, 
now  that  my  life  is  clouded  with  despair,  I  will  not 
creep  like  a  whipped  hound  on  my  knees,  and  pour  out 
those  prayers  and  homage  in  my  misery  I  never  uttered 
in  my  joy.  No  !  if  God  has  cursed  my  existence  with 
this  awful  fate,  suffering  shall  not  extort  from  me  the 
worship  which  happiness  could  not  win."  •> 

Doctor  Talbot  was  both  shocked  and  hurt.  He  could 
not  forbear  sternly  asking  the  unhappy  woman — "  Are 
you  willing  to  meet  that  death,  which  sooner  or  later 
must  come,  with  such  blasphemous  words  upon  your 
lips  ?" 

"  Yes !"  replied  Medora,  wildly.  "  Yes  !  I  would 
gladly  die  at  once.  Xo  future  terrors  can  appal  -me 
half  so  much  as  the  ancestral  doom  that  overshadows 
me." 

She  felt  herself  becoming  confused,  and  added  hastily, 
while  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  with  a 
weary  gesture : 

"  Forgive  me ;  I  did  not  intend  to  wound  you.     I 


232  Southwold. 

thank  you  for  your  kindness.  Forgive  me,  for  I  am 
very  wretched !" 

She  turned,  and  before  the  kind  physician  could  detain 
her,  ran  with  a  strange  gliding  swiftness  down  the  shore, 
until  a  huge  sandhill  hid  her  from  view.  Then  she 
sank  down  on  the  hard  beach,  and  all  remembrance  of 
the  past,  and  all  thought  for  the  future,  was  merged  in 
the  torturing  present.  Her  head  was  pierced  with  the 
most  agonizing  pain.  Her  brain  was  full  of  the  wildest 
and  most  distorted  fancies.  She  lay  there,  uttering  no 
sound,  except  occasionally  a  low  moan,  only  swaying 
herself  restlessly  from  side  to  side,  through  all  the  slow 
lapsing  hours  of  the  summer  day.  Unheeded,  the 
ardent  sun  poured  down  his  scorching  beams  on  her  un- 
protected head.  The  tide  rose  and  fell  beside  her, 
although  at  its  highest  point  the  curling  surf  almost 
reached  the  spot  where  she  rested.  Her  beautiful  hair 
was  tangled  with  the  clinging  sand.  Her  pure  white 
robe  was  soiled,  and  disordered — and  she,  always  so  scru- 
pulously neat  in  her  dress,  so  proudly  graceful  in  her 
motions,  lay  there  unheeding  her  disarranged  attire 
and  stained  garments.  It  was  well  for  her  that  no 
strange  foot  approached  the  spot  where  she  lay,  and 
that  only  the  eye  of  that  God  whom  she  had  outraged, 
beheld  her  misery. 

It  was  not  noon  when  the  attack  came  upon  her,  and 
the  last  slant  rays  of  the  sun  were  crimsoning  the  waves 
when  she  recovered  her  lost  sanity.  Rising  up  she 
looked  wildly  about  her,  and  gradually  remembered  all 
that  had  occurred.  A  blush  of  shame  flushed  her  fore- 
head as  she  noticed  her  dishevelled  hair  and  dress,  and 
thought  with  acute  mortification  of  the  possibility  of 


South  wold.  233 

having  been  seen  by  any  one  during  her  long  uncon- 
sciousness. Her  first  care  was  to  satisfy  herself  upon 
this  point.  To  her  inexpressible  relief  she  saw  that 
there  were  no  foot-prints  in  the  sand,  save  the  tiny 
marks  of  her  own  wandering  steps.  Satisfied  by  this, 
she  bound  up  her  hair,  arranged  her  dress  carefully,  and 
Avalked  rapidly  back  to  the  house. 

All  the  way  home  she  was  pondering  the  morning's 
conversation  and  her  subsequent  temporary  derange- 
ment. She  had  never  before  had  so  violent  an  attack, 
and  she  shuddered  with  inexpressible  agony  at  the 
thought  of  that  future  time  when  she  should  never  have 
one  moment  of  calm,  coherent  thought,  and  when  all 
her  dignity  and  modesty  would  yield  to  the  fatal  dis- 
ease. Remembering  what  the  physician  had  said,  and 
realizing  her  own  yet  superabundant  vitality,  only  one 
means  of  escape  suggested  itself,  from  the  long  years 
of  misery  her  ancestress  endured,  and  this  was — to  die 
at  once. 

With  desperate  courage  she  contemplated  this  alter- 
native. As  she  passed  on,  she  cast  a  questioning  glance 
at  the  cold  waters  that  broke  beside  her,  but  she  was  a 
strong  swimmer ;  in  by-gone  days  she  had  rejoiced  to 
struggle  successfully  with  the  bounding  waves.  Death 
by  that  means  would  not  be  easily  obtained,  and  she 
remembered  with  disgust  all  the  horrible  details  of  the 
discovery  of  a  drowned  corpse — the  bruised  and  dis- 
colored limbs  of  the  half-naked  body  exposed  to  the 
rude  gaze  of  curious  eyes. 

"  No  !  no !"  she  murmured,  "  I  must  die ;  young  as  I 
am,  that  is  my  only  hope ;  but,  oh  !  not  so  !  not  so !" 

While  she  was  yet  sane  she  determined  to  mature  a 


234  Southwold. 

plan  of  action  that  might,  as  far  as  possible,  rob  her 
death  of  its  physical  terrors,  give  it  the  appearance  of  a 
natural  catastrophe,  and  cheat  the  world  of  its  wonder- 
ing gossip  over  so  strange  a  suicide. 

Arrived  at  the  house  she  found  her  mother  in  hyste- 
rics from  anxiety.  She  was  obliged  to  satisfy  her  inqui- 
ries with  a  hasty  tale  of  a  dinner  at  a  distant  farm-house. 
As  she  uttered  the  words  Medora  loathed  the  falsehood, 
but  she  was  extremely  desirous  to  keep  her  mother  as 
long  as  possible  in  ignorance  of  the  true  nature  of  her 
disease.  Of  course  Mrs.  Fielding  saw  and  lamented  her 
daughter's  wasted  form  and  fading  beauty,  but  attribu- 
ted it  to  mortification  at  the  broken  engagement,  which 
time  would  soothe  and  renewed  triumphs  cure.  It  was, 
therefore,  a  never-ceasing  cause  of  querulous  complaint 
that  Medora  persisted  in  shunning  society. 

Fearing  the  peevish  remonstrances  which  her  long 
absence  would  certainly  call  forth,  under  the  plea  of 
fatigue  Medora  hastened  to  retire  to  her  little  chamber. 
There,  seated  at  the  open  window,  she  gazed  wearily  on 
the  beautiful  world  whose  loveliness  would  soon  fall  on 
horror-struck  senses,  without  the  power  of  soothing 
their  madness  or  calming  their  excitement  with  its 
unchangeable  serenity. 

As  she  looked  out,  the  moon  was  riding  high  in  the 
heavens,  while  below  her  lay  the  grey  beach  and  the 
dark  waters  of  the  restless  ocean,  flashing  for  an  instant 
in  the  silver  light  then  dying  in  foaming  surf  on  the 
shore.  Far  out  at  sea  a  great  ship  loomed  ghostly  in 
the  moonbeams,  and  in  the  distant  horizon  the  sea  and 
sky  mingled  dimly  into  one. 

There  is  always  something  sad  and  solemn  in  such  a 


Southwold.  235 

scene,  whose  mysterious  significance  is  vaguely  hymned 
in  the  eternal  moan  of  the  expiring  waves.  As  she 
listened  to  that  ceaseless  murmur  and  looked  up  at  that 
pale  moon  whose  origin  and  destruction  no  human  being 
can  guess  or  foretell,  over  Medora's  soul  rushed  all 
those  fearful  questions  that  in  this  world  must  for  ever 
remain  unanswered.  What  Omniscient  Being  marked 
out  and  watched  over  her  devious  career  ?  What 
Eternal  Power,  after  having  cursed  her  life  with  utter 
despair,  threatened  her  with  yet  worse  terrors  should  she 
dare  to  release  herself  from  present  misery  by  her  own 
act? 

Never  rightly  instructed,  or  vkindly  taught  that  the 
Great  All-Father  is  a  God  of  Love,  in  this  awful  hour 
of  trial,  no  hope  suggested  itself  to  the  wretched  girl, 
but  to  escape  from  the  fate  that  threatened  her,  by 
blindly  rushing  into  that  unknown  future  that  exists  in 
the  fathomless  eternity.  All  fear  of  the  hopeless  tor- 
ment which  there  awaits  the  lost  soul,  and  indeed  almost 
all  remembrance  of  the  crime  that  rendered  that  punish- 
ment inevitable,  was  merged  in  the  more  tangible  horror 
of  the  stony  walls  of  a  madhouse.  With  fierce  despera- 
tion she  rebelled  against  her  inexorable  fate,  and  im- 
piously dared  to  curse  God  and  die  ! 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"  Love  is  no  more  such  than  Seraphs'  hymns  are  discord, 
And  such  is  no  more  Love  than  ./Etna's  breath  is  summer." 
Proverbial  Philosophy. — TUPPER. 

"  Loathsome  are  life's  hours ! 
Laughing  shall  I  die !" 

KRAKUMAL. 

To  Lascelles  the  long  bright  summer  dragged  on 
week  after  week  with  tedious  weariness.  He  was 
haunted  with  constant  fears  that  by  some  accident  he 
might  yet  lose  his  ill-gotten  wealth.  His  wife's  rela- 
tions preserved  an  ominous  silence,  never  having  in  any 
way  questioned  his  right  to  the  property  he  claimed, 
and  he  was  annoyed  by  constant  visits  from  Margaret. 
Not  having  sufficient  nerve  to  defy  her,  he  was  com- 
pletely in  her  power.  Her  rapacity  knew  no  bounds ; 
and  in  order  to  satisfy  her,  he  gave  her  not  only  large 
sums  of  money,  but  actually  descended  to  the  meanness 
of  bestowing  upon  her,  at  her  demand,  various  articles 
of  his  dead  wife's  dress  and  ornaments.  Even  after  all 
this  he  had  no  confidence  in  her  fidelity,  and,  therefore, 
durst  not  leave  town.  He  lingered  there  all  through 
July  and  August,  endeavoring  vainly  to  forget  his 
troubles  in  the  various  dissipations  which  a  city  at  that 
season  affords. 


Southwold.  237 

At  length  the  plan  suggested  itself  of  persuading 
Margaret  to  return  to  Europe.  He  only  succeeded  in 
effecting  this  by  a  large  outlay  of  money ;  but  finally  he 
had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  passage  taken  in  the 
steamer,  and  all  the  arrangements  for  her  departure 
complete.  Vastly  relieved  to  be  entirely  free  from  this 
anxiety,  his  thoughts  reverted  with  renewed  ardor  to 
their  old  channel,  and  he  determined  once  more  to  visit 
Medora.  He  turned  his  back  upon  the  city  with  a 
lighter  heart  than  he  had  known  for  months,  and  one 
fine  September  afternoon  arrived  at  Seachester. 

As  soon  as  he  was  established  in  a  room  at  the  great 
hotel,  he  sallied  forth  hi  search  of  the  boarding-house 
where  he  knew  he  should  find  Medora  and  her  mother. 
Sending  up  a  card,  in  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Fielding 
entered  the  parlor.  After  exchanging  the  ordinary 
common-places  of  civility,  she  informed  him  that  her 
daughter  was  on  the  beach,  and  indicated  as  well  as  she 
was  able  the  lonely  seat  where  she  was  generally  to  be 
found.  After  receiving  this  information,  Lascelles 
lingered  but  a  short  time,  leaving  as  soon  as  politeness 
permitted,  and  Mrs.  Fielding  saw  him  depart  with  con- 
siderable satisfaction ;  for,  in  her  eyes,  the  wealthy 
widower  was  a  very  different  person  from  the  poor 
young  lawyer  who  had  wooed  her  daughter  eighteen 
months  before. 

A  rapid  walk  soon  brought  him  in  sight  of  the  desig- 
nated spot.  He  saw  a  graceful  figure  seated  on  a 
rude  bench,  and  something  in  the  air  and  attitude  at 
once  informed  him  that  it  was  she  whom  he  sought. 

The  sun  had  set  over  the  distant  waves,  and  earth  and 
sea  were  bathed  in  a  tender,  ruby  light.  All  necessity  for 


238  Southwold. 

protection  from  his  ardent  rays  having  ceased,  Medora 
had  thrown  off  the  broad-brimmed  hat  which  she  wore. 
It  had  been  a  sultry  day ;  her  drapery  was  thin,  her 
mantle  had  fallen  from  her  shoulders,  and  her  face 
and  neck  were  shaded  only  by  the  masses  of  her  golden 
hair.  In  that  ruddy  glow,  with  her  sad  gaze  fixed 
on  the  dying  sunset,  she  was  mournfully  beautiful  as 
the  fair  Eurydice,  when  she  watched  with  melan- 
choly patience  at  the  crimson  portals  of  inexorable 
hell. 

A  week  had  elapsed  since  Medora's  interview  with 
Dr.  Talbot,  and  she  was  herself  painfully  conscious  of 
the  rapid  failure  of  her  intellect.  Already  in  her  own 
mind  her  days  were  numbered,  and  she  sat  there,  her 
fingers  playing  idly  with  a  little  dagger  she  had  recently 
purchased,  her  heart  full  of  desperate  regrets  over  her 
blasted  hopes,  when  her  profound  reverie  was  broken  by 
a  voice  calling  her  name — 

"  Medora!" 

She  sprang  up  startled,  and  beside  her  stood  the  only 
man  she  had  ever  loved.  With  a  wild  cry  she  staggered 
forward,  and  for  one  brief  instant  was  locked  in  his 
arms.  Then,  with  remembered  dignity,  she  drew  back, 
and  for  the  first  time  Lascelles  clearly  saw  all  the 
ravages  which  the  past  three  months  had  made  in  that 
once  peerless  woman.  Was  this  the  beautiful  girl  whose 
form  was  rounded  to  perfect  grace,  whose  face  glowed 
with  health  and  intellect  ?  This  pale  being,  thin  to 
attenuation,  with  half-uncurled  ringlets  clinging  to  her 
bare  shoulders,  whose  plump  softness  was  all  gone ! 
Her  cheeks  and  lips  colorless  and  wan,  and  those  won- 
derful eyes,  now  unnaturally  large,  burning  with  dazzling 


Southwold.  239 

brilliance  as  if  lighted  by  a  consuming  fire !  Inexpressibly 
shocked,  Lascelles  exclaimed : 

"  Good  God !     Medora,  have  you  been  ill  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  since  I  last  saw  you  I  have 
suffered  more  than  I  can  tell.  I  did  not  expect  to  meet 
you  again,  but  since  you  are  come  it  is  well.  Sit  beside 
me." 

"  For  ever,  dearest,"  he  replied,  seating  himself,  and 
endeavoring  to  encircle  her  waist  with  his  arm.  Medora 
drew  back — 

"  No,  Walter  !  That  cannot  be.  There  was  a  time 
when  I  would  gladly  have  been  yours,  but  it  is  too  late 
now.  Your  falsehood  has  been  fatal."  . 

"Do  not  be  too  cruel  with  me,"  said  Lascelles, 
entreatingly,  "  you  know  I  was  driven  to  it.  After  all 
it  has  ended  well,  for  now  I  can  give  you  that  wealth 
without  which  we  could  neither  of  us  have  been  content." 

Medora  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "No  need 
of  excuses  now,"  she  repeated.  "  I  tell  you,  you  woo 
me  too  late  !  too  late !" 

"  Dearest  Medora,  do  not  say  that ;  you  must  forgive 
me,  and  we  will  yet  be  happy  together." 

"  No,  Walter,  that  will  never  be.  I  have  been  very 
ill,  I  cannot  marry  you,  nor  will  you  wish  it  when  you 
know  what  is  the  fatal  malady  that  is  killing  me." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  Lascelles,  much  startled. 

"  Can  you  not  guess  ?"  she  asked  sadly,  as  she  rose 
and  stood  before  him.  "  You  see  how  I  am  changed  ; 
now  look  at  me  well,  note  my  wasted  figure,  and  my 
wild  eyes.  Do  you  not  read  my  awful  doom  ?"  Then, 
as  he  did  not  reply,  she  added  solemnly,  "  I  will  inter- 
pret it  for  you,  then.  Walter  Lascelles  !  I  am  mad !" 


240 


Southwold. 


Standing  there  in  the  fading  light  with  white  garments, 
long  fair  hair,  and  gleaming  eyes,  she  looked  so  strange 
and  unearthly  that  he  felt  an  absolute  conviction  of  the 
truth  of  her  words.  Horrified,  he  stammered: 

"  No,  no  !  you  are  excited,  you  cannot  mean  that. 
Do  try  to  be  calm." 

Medora  reseated  herself.  "I  will  endeavor  to  be," 
she  answered  more  quietly,  "  but  now  you  realize  that 
you  are  indeed  too  late !" 

"  Perhaps  you  only  imagine  it,"  said  Lascelles  eva- 
sively, then,  remembering  the  scene  at  Southwold,  he 
added,  "You  let  your  thoughts  dwell  too  much  upon 
the  past." 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  forget  it  ?"  she  asked  fiercely. 
"  No,  it  will  haunt  me  for  ever  and  for  ever !" 

"  My  dear  Medora,  you  should  endeavor  to  throw  off 
such  imaginations,  try  change  of  air  and  scene;  you  will 
yet  be  well." 

"  No,  Walter,  no  possibility  of  that !  I  have  not  yet 
told  you  the  worst.  This  insanity  is  hereditary,  the 
poison  that  fires  my  blood  and  maddens  my  brain  is 
inherited  from  a  crazed  ancestress." 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Lascelles,  "is  there 
then  no  hope  ?" 

"None !"  replied  Medora,  sadly;  then  taking  his  hand, 
she  added,  "  now  that  you  know  my  fate,  of  course  you 
will  yield  to  our  inevitable  separation ;  but  yet  once 
more,  let  me,  if  I  can,  forget  the  threatening  future  hi 
the  present." 

Alas !  poor  subterfuge  of  a  frenzied  fancy !  She  said 
this  with  a  desperate  recklessness,  hoping  to  cheat  her- 
self once  more  with  the  belief  in  a  vanished  happiness, 


South  wold.  241 

never  imagining  that  the  words  and  the  willingness 
with  which  she  resigned  herself  to  his  offered  embrace, 
would  suggest  to  Lascelles'  base  heart  a  purpose  too 
unutterably  vile  for  expression.  As  he  pressed  his  lips 
to  hers  he  murmured  softly — 

"  You  love  me,  darling  ?" 

That  word,  pronounced  in  that  tone,  awakened  all 
the  tender  memories  of  the  past,  and  never  dreaming  of 
danger,  Medora  yielded  with  rapturous  ardor  to  that 
last  caress.  They  were  alone  with  the  whispering  ocean 
and  the  deserted  shore,  and  the  soft  hush  of  twilight 
fell  gently  around  them  in  those  passionate  moments  of 
silence  and  love. 

Suddenly  Medora  tore  herself  from  those  clinging  arms, 
and  started  to  her  feet,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes 
flashing. 

"Walter  Lascelles!  I  had  forgotten  that  you  were 
selfish  and  treacherous ;  you  have  reminded  me  of  it. 
I  gave  that  embrace  not  to  what  you  are,  but  to  the  lost 
ideal  I  once  loved  !" 

With  trembling  lips  he  sprang  towards  her  and 
endeavored  to  clasp  her  once  more.  Medora  drew  her- 
self up  haughtily. 

"  What !  "  she  cried,  "  You  would  dare  to  touch  me 
again  ?  Stand  back !"  then  as  he  still  advanced,  she 
raised  her  arm,  and  the  fading  light  concentrated  flashed 
from  the  narrow  blade  of  her  tiny  dagger.  "Stand 
back,  I  say !"  she  added,  fiercely,  "  do  you  see  this  ?  It 
is  a  tiny  weapon,  but  remember  it  is  in  the  hand  of  a 
maniac !" 

At  her  frenzied  words  and  menacing  gesture,  Las- 
«elles,  a  thorough  dastard  at  heart,  slunk  off  terrified. 
11 


242  Southwold. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Medora,  wildly.  "Afraid!  Oh, 
false-hearted  coward !  I  loathe  myself  that  I  ever  loved 
you  !  I  thank  you  for  having  broken  the  last  spell  that 
bound  me  to  you.  I  shall  die  the  happier  for  having  no 
regrets ! " 

As  she  uttered  the  last  words,  she  waved  her  hand, 
witheringly  contemptuous,  as  the  fair  Brynhild,  when 
the  craven  Viking  came  to  claim  the  reward  of  his 
crime ;  and,  as  with  desperate  purpose  she  faded  from  her 
lover's  eyes,  so  Medora,  with  fluttering  garments  and 
floating  hair,  disappeared  in  darkness. 


CHAPTER   XXVin. 

"  Q  jours,  jours  de  douleur,  de  silence  et  d'eflroi  1" 

n. — LAMARTINE. 


"  Quisque  suos  patimur  Manes." 

VIRGIL. 


Medora  had  walked  some  distance,  and  was 
beyond  all  possibility  of  pursuit,  she  paused.  She  felt 
that  same  strange  sensation  creeping  over  her  brain, 
and  knew  only  too  well  that  another  of  those  fearful 
attacks  was  coming  on.  With  a  shudder  she  drew  the 
little  dagger  again  from  its  sheath ;  it  was  a  tiny,  weak 
affair,  which  she  had  purchased  with  the  resolution  of 
never  being  without  the  means  of  freeing  herself  from 
suffering,  but  at  the  same  time  she  did  not  intend  to 
use  it  except  under  extreme  circumstances,  as  death  by 
that  means  would  tell  only  too  plainly  its  own  horrible 
tale. 

In  "her  reflections  upon  the  one  subject  that  now 
engrossed  all  her  thoughts,  a  far  better  plan  had  sug- 
gested itself:  one  which,  if  she  could  put  it  in  execution, 
would  prevent  all  suspicion  of  the  true  cause  of  her 
death.  Now  feeling  that  her  self-control  was  rapidly 
deserting  her,  she  determined  no  longer  to  delay  her 


244  Southwold. 

preparations,  and  nerving  herself  to  her  task  she  sub- 
dued her  excited  feelings  into  staid  dignity  of  deport- 
ment. 

On  reaching  the  village  she  went  at  once  to  a  small 
apothecary's  shop,  and  entering  with  apparent  indiffer- 
ence she  made  her  purchase  unquestioned.  As  she 
came  out  into  the  increasing  gloom  she  tore  the  yet 
moist  label  from  the  phial  she  had  bought,  and  rolling  it 
into  a  shapeless  mass  flung  it  away.  Then  hastening  on, 
she  entered  the  house  by  a  side  door,  and  went  at  once 
to  her  room. 

Arrived  there,  she  carefully  concealed  the  bottle,  and 
threw  herself  on  the  bed,  putting  the  dagger  under  her 
pillow.  A  moment  after  she  called  a  servant  and  sent 
for  her  mother.  All  this  she  had  done  by  a  desperate 
effort  of  will,  never  pausing  for  thought,  and,  indeed, 
almost  incapable  of  it.  The  pain  in  her  head  was 
increasing  fearfully,  yet  she  controlled  herself  suffi- 
ciently, when  Mrs.  Fielding  entered  much  alarmed  by 
her  hasty  summons,  to  say  in  a  steady  voice  : 

"  I  am  very  ill,  mother ;  I  am  going  to  have  one  of 
my  terrible  headaches.  Send  for  Dr.  Talbot :  he  will 
attend  me ;  and  let  no  one  besides  yourself,  but  him, 
approach  me." 

She  spoke  coherently  though  very  rapidly,  for  even  as 
the  last  syllables  passed  her  lips  a  rushing  sound  filled 
her  brain,  all  consciousness  left  her,  and  she  sank  into  a 
bewilderment  of  agony. 

Three  days  elapsed,  three  dreadful  days  of  unutter- 
able anguish.  Hour  after  hour  the  wretched  woman 
suffered  and  endured,  lying  there  in  her  darkened 
chamber,  with  her  once  noble  intellect  shattered,  her 


Southwold.  245 

once  beautiful  face  distorted  with  pain.  All  that  could 
be  done  to  alleviate  her  sufferings  was  done  by  Dr. 
Talbot,  who  watched  over  her  with  the  kindest  care ; 
and  his  efforts  were  rewarded,  for  it  was  he  who  caught 
the  first  ray  of  returning  intellect  when,  at  the  close 
of  the  third  day,  Medora  opened  her  eyes,  calm,  and,  in 
a  measure,  free  from  pain.  She  smiled  sweetly  as  she 
caught  his  look  fixed  upon  her  with  anxious  solicitude, 
and  said  faintly : 

"I  am  quite  collected,  Doctor.  I  knew  you  would 
come  to  see  me." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  young  lady.  I  am  sincerely 
glad  that  you  are  at  last  better." 

"  How  long  have  I  been  ill  ?" 

"It  is  three  days  since  the  attack  came  on." 

"  Three  days,  and  it  has  not  killed  me  !"  she  moaned, 
then  glancing  quickly  around  the  apartment,  and  seeing 
that  accidentally  there  was  no  one  there  but  the  kind 
physician,  she  asked,  in  a  low  tone,  "  Have  I  raved 
much  ?" 

"  No  I  not  a  great  deal,  I  think  ;  but  you  are  talking 
more  than  you  should ;  let  me  call  your  mother,  she 
will  be  glad  to  see  you  once  again  yourself." 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Medora,  "  does  she  suspect  what 
is  the  matter  with  me  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  I  think  not.  She  tells 
me  that  since  your  childhood  the  slightest  fever  has 
been  accompanied  by  delirium,  and  she  attributes  your 
illness  solely  to  that.  Poor  lady  !  she  is  quite  worn  out 
with  three  nights  of  watching,  and  has  gone  now  to 
take  a  little  rest."  He  moved  towards  the  door,  but 
Medora  hastily  detained  him. 


246  Southwold. 

"  Stop  one  moment,  please ;  I  should  like  to  say  a  few 
words  to  you,  now,  while  I  have  the  opportunity." 

The  doctor  paused.  "  Be  careful  not  to  over-exert 
yourself,"  he  said,  kindly. 

Replying  to  this  warning  only  by  an  impatient  ges- 
ture, Medora  asked — 

"  Is  there  no  possibility  of  such  suffering  developing 
a  disease  of  the  heart  ?" 

"  I  think  not ;  I  see  no  danger  of  it." 

"  May  it  not  kill  me  by  a  sudden  congestion,  or  some 
such  affection  of  the  brain  ?" 

"  I  hope  not,  but,  my  dear  young  friend,  you  must 
not  indulge  such  fancies." 

Without  heeding  the  reproof,  Medora  continued — 

"  If  you  found  me  dead  to  what  would  you  attribute 
my  death?" 

"  It  would  depend  upon  circumstances,"  replied  Doc- 
tor Talbot.  "  But  you  are  becoming  excited,  I  cannot 
allow  you  to  talk  thus." 

Medora  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and  in  the  steady 
light  of  her  clear  eyes  there  was  very  little  appearance 
of  a  wandering  intellect,  as  she  said — 

"  Only  one  word  more,  and  I  have  done ;  first,  to 
thank  you  for  your  kindness,  and  then  to  beg  you,  if 
you  ever  are  summoned  to  my  aid  too  late,  to  let  the 
secret  of  my  disease  and  my  death  die  with  me." 

"Miss  Fielding,"  replied  Doctor  Talbot,  rising,  "I 
am  unable  to  comprehend  the  full  meaning  of  what  you 
say,  but  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  consider  it  my  duty  to 
tell  your  mother  that  you  should  not  be  permitted  to 
be  much  alone.  As  for  your  desire  that  your  threat- 
ened malady  shall  remain  unknown,  I  sympathize  with 


Southwold.  247 

it  fully,  and  you  may  rest  assured  that  I  shall  not  be 
the  first  to  divulge  it.  Allow  me  to  summon  Mrs. 
Fielding." 

He  left  the  room,  and  Medora  sank  back  upon  the 
pillow,  a  good  deal  exhausted  with  the  effort  of  so  long 
a  conversation.  Her  busy  brain,  restored  to  coherent 
action,  was  full  of  plans  and  thoughts ;  she  had  no  in- 
tention of  complying  with  the  physician's  repeated  in- 
junctions as  to  the  absolute  necessity  for  quiet.  This 
was  the  time  for  exertion,  and  not  for  tranquillity. 

That  same  evening,  finding  herself  alone  with  her 
mother,  she  turned  to  her  and  said — 

"  Mamma,  please  come  and  sit  beside  me,  I  have 
something  I  wish  to  say  to  you." 

"  My  dear,  the  doctor  said  you  should  not  talk  much," 
replied  Mrs.  Fielding,  approaching  the  bed. 

"  I  know  it,  mamma,  but  I  may  not  again  be  so  well 
able  to  speak  as  I  am  now." 

"  Do  not  say  so,  Medora ;  you  are  already  better,  you 
"will  soon  be  well." 

"  No,  mamma,  I  am  afraid  not ;  I  have  been  so  ill 
that  death  stares  me  in  the  face." 

"  My  dear  child  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fielding,  "  do  not 
say  such  frightful  words,  the  doctor  does  not  consider 
you  in  any  danger." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  pain  you,"  replied  Medora,  "  I  have 
already  caused  you  so  much  anxiety ;  it  is  true  I  may 
recover,  but  if  I  should  not,  dear  mamma,  promise  to  for- 
get all  my  wayward  selfishness,  and  to  remember  only 
that  I  always  loved  you,  and  that  I  have  been  very  un- 
happy." 


248  Southwold. 

Mrs.  Fielding  began  to  sob.  "You  terrify  me  by 
talking  thus,  Meclora ;  you  know  that  I  am  bound  up  in 
you,  and  you  make  me  miserable  by  such  strange 
speeches." 

"  You  need  not  distress  yourself  so  much,"  answered 
Medora  kindly ;  and  anxious  to  relieve  her  mother's 
mind,  she  added,  "  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  better  to-mor- 
row." 

Mrs.  Fielding  did  not  catch  the  look  which  accompa- 
nied these  words,  or  she  would  not  have  felt  so  much 
reassured.  Drying  her  eyes,  she  replied  : 

"  Not  if  you  agitate  yourself  so,  my  dear  ;  you  must 
not  say  another  word,  but  try  to  sleep." 

Medora  replied,  by  entreating  her  mother  not  to  think 
of  sitting  up  with  her  that  night,  but  to  leave  her  in 
charge  of  the  maid,  who  had  offered  to  watch,  and  her- 
self seek  the  repose  she  so  much  required.  Yielding  at 
length  to  her  daughter's  entreaties,  Mrs.  Fielding,  after 
seeing  everything  arranged  for  her  comfort,  and  giving 
Mary  many  earnest  directions,  leaned  down  to  bid  Me- 
dora good  night.  With  strange  wistful  fondness,  she 
clung  around  her  mother's  neck,  kissing  her  again  and 
again,  until  Mrs.  Fielding  said — 

"  If  you  would  rather  have  me  with  you,  my  dear, 
only  say  so." 

"No!  no,"  replied  Medora,  releasing  her  hold,  "I  re- 
quire no  assistance.  I  am  sure  I  shall  sleep.  Good 
night." 

So  her  mother  left  the  room,  and  with  a  long  sigh 
Medora  closed  her  eyes  in  well-feigned  slumber. 

Mary  sat  for  some  time  watching  the  tranquil  figure 


Southwold.  249 

on  the  bed ;  then  she  began  to  think  how  hard  it  would 
be  to  keep  awake  all  night,  and  at  last — youth  is  careless, 
and  nature  is  powerful, — she  sank  down  in  a  profound 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"How  ended  she? 

"With  horror  madly  dying,  like  her  life, 
"Which  being  cruel  to  the  world,  concluded 
Most  cruel  to  herself." 

CymbeUne. — Si 


MEDOEA  remained  perfectly  quiet,  until  the  regular 
breathing  of  the  tired  girl  assured  her  that  she  was 
asleep.  Then  she  opened  her  eyes  and  slowly  raised 
herself  in  bed  ;  her  first  act  was  to  slide  her  hand  under 
the  pillow — the  dagger  was  gone.  Her  lip  curled  with 
a  weary  contempt,  as  she  murmured — 

"It  is  as  well  so,  they  will  be  the  more  entirely 
deceived." 

Then  very  gradually  she  drew  herself  into  a  sitting 
posture,  the  candle-light  flickered  on  her  pale  face,  her 
long  disordered  hair  and  white  garments  giving  her  an 
appearance  of  unearthly  beauty,  as  she  paused  for \a  mo- 
ment from  sheer  weakness.  Her  head  swam,  and  had 
she  not  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  bed,  she  would 
have  fallen. 

"  Courage  I"  she  whispered.  "  I  shall  not  suffer 
long!" 

As  she  spoke,  she  stepped  on  the  floor  with  tiny 
bare  feet.  The  doctor  had  said  truly  she  had  great 
vigor  of  constitution.  She  rallied  all  her  strength,  and 


Southwold.  251 

with  a  mighty  effort  seemed  to  fling  off  every  weakness, 
as  she  rose  up  firmly,  and  glided  noiselessly  across  the 
room.  On  the  shelf  where  she  had  placed  it  stood 
the  small  phial,  containing  a  thick,  dark  fluid.  There 
was  an  awful  stealthiness  in  her  motions,  as  with  a  hand 
which  no  longer  trembled,  Medora  took  it  down.  For 
an  instant  a  shiver  crept  over  her,  as  she  held  it  up  to 
the  light. 

"  Death  !"  she  murmured,  "  liquid  death  in  this  nau- 
seous draught !  Fool !  why  do  I  shudder ;  is  not  an 
endless  sleep  better  than  a  frenzied  life  !  Come,  let  me 
drink  it  then,  and  drink  it  gaily,  in  memory  of  the 
past." 

With  a  strange  smile  she  raised  the  glass  to  her  lips, 
and  unflinchingly,  with  resolute  brow,  drop  by  drop 
swallowed  all  its  bitter  contents.  When  it  was  empty 
she  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Ah,  well !"  she  sighed.  "  It  is  all  over  now ;  the 
final  act  of  my  life's  tragedy  is  performed;  it  only 
remains  to  cheat  the  world  for  the  last  time.  Quick, 
then,  before  the  fatal  lethargy  creeps  over  me." 

With  steady  hand  she  threw  some  water  into  the 
bottle,  and  after  cleansing  it  thoroughly,  replaced  it  on 
the  shelf.  The  cork,  which  had  scarcely  touched  its 
contents,  she  tore  in  two,  and  tossed  it  through  the 
open  window.  As  she  did  this,  she  paused  for  one  mo- 
ment, and  looked  out.  In  the  east  the  old  moon,  now 
in  her  last  quarter,  was  struggling  to  rise  above  the 
clouds  which  shrouded  the  horizon ;  the  unlit  ocean 
was  black  and  stormy,  and  the  surf  fell  with  a  sullen 
roar. 

"  The  moon  is  waning,  like  my  life,"  she  said,  wildly, 


252  Southwold. 

"  and  the  night  is  as  dark  as  my  fate  !  Oh,  it  is  hard  to 
die  thus,  and  so  young !  to  bid  this  beautiful  world,  my 
home  and  my  friends,  a  last  farewell !  But  I  linger  too 
long ;  already  a  strange  drowsiness  creeps  over  me.  I 
said  well,  I  shall  sleep  to-night — to-night  and  for  ever !" 

With  a  quick  glance  at  the  still  slumbering  girl,  she 
crept  back  to  bed.  Beside  her  on  a  table  stood  an 
odeur  casket  ;  taking  out  the  bottle  which  contained 
Cologne,  she  moistened  her  lips  with  it,  and  bathed  her 
hands  and  brow  in  the  powerful  perfume.  Then,  with 
instinctive  dignity  and  modesty,  she  arranged  her  dress 
carefully,  and  swept  back  her  golden  curls.  All  wns 
done,  she  crossed  her  hands  quietly  on  her  breast,  and 
her  lips  parted  in  the  happiest  smile  that  had  gleamed 
there  for  months,  as  she  whispered  softly  : 

"  Now  have  I  not  expiated  that  old  man's  death  ?  I 
no  longer  see  his  haunting  frown.  God  knows  how  much 
I  have  suffered ;  and  if  He  is  indeed  a  God  of  mercy, 
perhaps  I  may  yet  find  happiness  and  peace  in  that 
world  beyond  the  stars  !" 

Her  eyes  closed ;  a  creeping  lethargy  clouded  her 
brain  and  checked  her  pulses;  paler  and  paler  grew 
her  beautiful  face,  until  when  the  moon  rising  above  the 
clouds,  shed  its  beams  on  that  fair  form,  there  was  that 
in  its  rigid  outlines  and  changeless  serenity  that  told, 
with  hopeless  certainty,  that  she  slept  the  sleep  of 
death ! 

Death !  O  eternal  mystery !  Alas  !  that  one  so 
young  should  rashly  dare,  with  presumptuous  feet,  to 
cross  its  threshold  unsummoned !  Alas !  that  one  so 
gifted  should  have  been  driven  by  a  frenzied  brain  to 
commit  this  desperate  act !  Alas !  that  one  so  beautiful 


South  wold.  2  53 

should  be  self-condemned,  to  leave  this  fair  world  to  rest 
in  an  unhallowed  grave ! 

The  long  night  passed  slowly  on  in  that  silent  room, 
whose  stillness  was  broken  only  by  the  chime  of  the 
waves,  sounding  ever  like  a  wailing  dirge.  The  candle 
flickered  and  flared  in  its  socket,  and  at  last  went  out, 
just  as  the  moon's  light,  before  she  had  run  half  her 
course,  was  quenched  in  the  coming  day. 

Refreshed  by  a  few  hours'  sleep  the  watcher  awoke, 
and  was  greatly  relieved  to  find  her  charge  still  reposing. 
With  careful  hand  she  drew  the  curtains,  lest  the  too 
brilliant  light  might  disturb  her.  Vain  precaution  !  the 
most  dazzling  sun  that  ever  shone  would  be  powerless 
to  break  that  everlasting  slumber. 

As  the  morning  passed  on  Mrs.  Fielding's  first  pleasure 
at  her  daughter's  tranquil  night  and  late  rest,  was 
changed  to  such  anxiety  as  made  her  send  in  all  haste 
for  Doctor  Talbot.  He  came  quickly,  in  answer  to  her 
summons,  and  entered  with  her  the  darkened  room  that 
was  yet  fragrant  with  the  powerful  scent  of  cologne. 
He  bent  down  over  that  quiet  figure,  and  then  with 
horror-struck  haste  tore  back  the  curtains  from  the 
window  and  let  in  the  glorious  flood  of  autumn  sun- 
light. 

It  fell  in  a  shower  of  bright  rays  on  the  snowy  robe 
that  veiled  that  exquisite  form,  lighting  up  the  clear 
pallor  of  her  faultless  complexion,  gleaming  on  those 
full  lips,  yet  parted  in  a  happy  smile,  and  transforming 
her  yellow  ringlets  into  gold.  But  all  this  beauty  was 
ghastly  to  look  upon,  for  no  gentle  respirations  heaved 
that  swelling  bosom,  and  the  half  open  eyes  were  utterly 
expressionless  and  dead. 


254  Southwold. 

"  Why  does  she  not  wake  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Fielding,  in 
a  low  frightened  whisper. 

"Madam,"  replied  Doctor  Talbot,  compassionately, 
"  Try  to  remember  that  God  is  infinitely  good,  although 
he  has  sent  upon  you  this  great  affliction.  Your  daughter 
never  will  wake  again !" 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

©so/ 


THE  true  cause  of  Medora's  death  was  never  known. 
If  Doctor  Talbot  had  any  suspicions  he  wisely  kept  them 
locked  in  his  own  breast.  As  she  had  wished,  the  secret 
of  her  malady  and  its  sequel  died  with  her.  There  is 
something  very  sad  in  the  untimely  fate  of  one  so  young ; 
and  long  afterwards  many  a  bright  face  in  a  gay  ball- 
room was  clouded  by  the  passing  remembrance  of  that 
graceful  figure  that  would  never  again  lead  the  dance, 
that  silvery  laugh  that  was  hushed  for  ever ! 

Upon  Mrs.  Fielding  the  effect  of  the  sudden  destruc- 
tion of  all  the  fond  hopes  and  proud  anticipations  that 
centred  around  her  daughter,  was  most  disastrous. 
Indeed  she  never  fully  recovered  from  the  shock.  It 
was  the  affliction,  above  all  others,  most  calculated  to 
wring  her  frivolous  character  to  its  very  depths. 

Mrs.  Clarkson  heard  the  sad  news  with  a  passionate 
burst  of  grief,  for  a  whole  season  absolutely  refusing  to 
be  comforted. 

As  for  Lascelles,  he  suffered  as  deeply  from  Medora's 
loss,  as  was  possible  for  one  of  his  selfish  nature.  But 
little  time  was  allowed  him  for  indulging  his  sorrow. 


256  Southwold. 

Very  soon  every  faculty  was  absorbed  in  a  new  anxiety. 
On  his  return  to  the  city,  he  learned  that  the  nurse 
Margaret  had  indeed  sailed  for  England,  but  before  her 
departure  she  turned  her  secret  to  yet  further  account 
by  selling  it  for  the  last  time  to  the  nearest  male  rela- 
tive of  the  late  Mr.  Went  worth.  From  her  informa- 
tion, coupled  with  the  corroborative  proof  that  Mrs. 
Hartly  was  able  to  give,  his  deception  was  discovered. 
Indeed,  on  being  questioned,  his  assertions  were  so 
confused  and  contradictory,  that,  with  his  pale  face  and 
frightened  looks,  they  were  but  assurances  of  his  guilt. 

By  an  accident  the  whole  disgraceful  history  became 
public,  and  Lascelles  was  everywhere  treated  with  the 
coldness  and  contempt  he  so  well  deserved.  No  need 
to  follow  him  further.  It  is  easy  to  guess  where  the 
career  of  one  so  cowardly  and  so  utterly  lost  to  all  sense 
of  honor  must  inevitably  end. 

In  his  beautiful  home  on  the  Hudson,  seated  in  the 
very  room  where  he  had  first  heard  her  name,  Floyd 
Southwold  read  this  announcement. 

"Died  at  Seachester,  September  18th,  MEDORA,  only  child  of  the 
late  CAPT.  RICHARD  FIELDING.  Aged  20." 

With  a  desperate  spasm  of  the  heart  he  dropped  the 
paper,  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  At  that  moment 
all  was  forgotten,  but  that  he  once  loved  her,  and  her 
image  rushed  to  his  memory  fair  as  when  he  first  saw 
her  radiant  with  health  and  beauty  so  surpassingly 
lovely  that  involuntarily  his  whole  soul  was  full  of  wor- 
shipping admiration. 


Southwold  257 

The  shock  was  almost  as  great  as  if  she  had  been  torn 
from  his  side  while  he  could  yet  claim  her  as  his  own. 
Ignorant  of  the  true  cause  of  her  early  death,  he  trusted 
wiht  lenient  tenderness  that  it  had  expiated  her  faults 
and  her  crimes,  and  no  longer  struggled  against  the 
haunting  remembrance. 

His  had  been  a  faithful  and  absorbing  passion,  and  it 
was  long  ere  he  recovered  from  its  effects.  But  at  last 
the  first  stunning  sorrow  passed  away,  and  he  was 
enabled  once  more  to  resume  the  tranquil  occupations  of 
his  quiet  life. 

In  that  future  which  lies  bright  before  him,  he  may 
yet  find  happiness  in  a  calmer  love,  and  as  he  goes  down 
the  path  of  life,  new  pleasures  and  successes  may  sur- 
round his  steps.  But  ever  in  his  most  joyous  moments 
memory  will  turn  with  yearning  regrets  to  those  golden 
hours  when  he  first  wooed  Medora ;  all  other  forms  of 
beauty  must  fade  before  the  remembered  loveliness  of 
that  peerless  woman,  over  whose  untimely  fate  his  heart 
with  passionate  tenderness  ever  murmurs  a  mournful 
lament. 


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containing  1 2  assorted  volumes.     Price  per  box,  $4  oo. 

THE   COTTAGE   COOK  BOOK; 

Or,  Housekeeping  made  Easy  and  Economical  in  all  its 
Departments.  A  work  eminently  practical  and  useful. 
By  EMILY  THORNWELL.  Illustr.  Muslin,  price  75  cents 


LIST  OF  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  6 

DOESTICKS'  LETTERS. 

Being  a  compilation  of  the  Original  Letters  of  O.  K.  P. 
DOESTICKS,  P.  B.  With  many  comic  tinted  illustrations 
by  John  McLenan.  izmo.  Muslin,  price  $i  oo. 

PLU-RI-BUS-TAH. 

A  song  that's  by-no-author.  Not  a  parody  on  "Hia- 
watha." By  DOESTICKS.  With  150  humorous  illus- 
trations by  McLenan.  izmo.  Muslin,  price  $i  oo. 

THE   ELEPHANT   CLUB. 

An  irresistibly  droll  volume.  By  DOESTICKS,  assisted  by 
KNIGHT  Russ  OCKSIDE,  M.D.  One  of  his  best  works. 
Profusely  illustrated  by  McLenan.  Muslin,  price  $  I  oo. 

THE  WITCHES  OF  NEW  YORK. 

A  new  humorous  work  by  DOESTICKS;  being  minute, 
particular,  and  faithful  Revelations  of  Black  Art 
Mysteries  in  Gotham,  izmo.  Muslin,  price  $i  oo. 

HUSBAND  vs.  WIFE. 

A  Domestic  Satirical  Poem.  By  HENRY  CLAPP,  JR. 
Illustrated  by  A.  Hoppin,  in  colors,  on  cream  paper, 
in  Illuminated  Missal  style.  Muslin,  price  60  cents. 

THE  SPUYTENDEVIL  CHRONICLE. 

A  sparkling  Novel  of  young  Fashionable  Life  in  New  York; 
a  Saratoga  Season ;  Flirtations,  &c.  A  companion 
to  the  "Potiphar  Papers."  Muslin,  price  75  cents. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  TELEGRAPH. 

An  Authentic  Histo-ry  of  Telegraphy ;  with  Biogra- 
phies, Maps,  Steel  and  Wood  Engravings,  Portraits,  &c. 
Dedicated  to  CYRUS  W.  FIELD.  Muslin,  price  $i  oo. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


REC'O  URL  C'RC 

RPR  1 9 199 

MAY  031993 

QLOCT16  1 


rm  L9-Series4939 


PIUI  II  IN  Mill  I  INI  HI" 
L  006  846  812  3 


